


The Mpreg Trash Collection

by bananabog



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Childbirth, Crack, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Male Pregnancy, Mpreg, Mystery Trio, Stancest - Freeform, because i am h/c trash, because i'm fucking mpreg trash, disaster's in the air, everything about this is trash, fiddauthor - Freeform, fiddlestan, fiddlestanwich, i have no preference when it comes to the twins i can ship them with everyone and anything, labor, might include more pairings later, there's magic everywhere, up the wazoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5541305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananabog/pseuds/bananabog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated mpreg one-shots. Gratuitous fluff and OOC ahead. Pairings/Prompt/Rating to be indicated in the titles. </p><p>(Obviously going to go with the younger/legal ages of the characters listed here because, you know, it needs to make biological sense even when it doesn't make biological sense. Also because I am trash, why the hell not, and I'm already going to hell anyway.)</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Listed as "Completed" as it'll no longer be updated.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stancest (dad!Stan), Kicking and Discomfort (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The baby's keeping Stan up and it's frustrating.
> 
> Setting/Time-frame: Mystery Twins AU where Stan follows Ford to Gravity Falls. Established relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Fucking OOC-as-hell Ford and Stan in this one.
> 
> Magical ass babies, incestuous gay mpreg with none of the cons of real life complications were it to ever happen, etc.
> 
> Edited Feb 2016 to add: This was the first thing I ever wrote for this collection and the characterizations for this particular chapter are laughably atrocious. I'll leave it up for posterity, but eurgh.

When Ford finds him, Stan’s leaning against the kitchen sink, full glass of water cupped between his hands. The moonlight shining through the kitchen window casts him in a faint backlight, emphasizing his broad, firm shoulders, and his belly, heavy and gravid.

Stan startles when he sees Ford and he straightens quickly (or as quickly as he can with the extra weight). He sets the glass down before he scrubs at his eyes furiously, guiltily. “Oh. Hey, Pointdexter. Didn’t know you were up.”

“The bed was empty,” Ford replies gently. He quietly eases his way across the kitchen, and when Stan doesn’t shrink away, slowly wraps his arms around the other man and pulls him into a comforting embrace.

Stan buries his face in his brother’s shoulder. “This is embarrassin’,” he mumbles, hoping Ford won’t feel the wetness on his collar.

Ford shushes him and presses a kiss to the top of his head. He rubs a strong hand down Stan’s spine, pressing circles into the small of his back where it’s been hurting Stan lately. “What’s wrong?” he murmurs.    

Stan pulls back and digs the heel of his hand into his eyes one last time, snorting loudly to clear his sinuses. “Little Bastard won’t stop kickin’.”

Ford slides his hand onto Stan’s stomach and immediately feels their child respond, hard, firm nudges beneath his hand. He grimaces in sympathy – that probably really hurts. He rubs at the site of activity, trying to soothe their child as Stan exhales loudly and tries to practice his breathing.

“It’s been _hours.”_ Stan winces as a particularly hard kick goes straight up into his diaphragm. Ford quickly presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth as an apology and keeps rubbing at Stan’s belly, drawing his palms in a slow heart-pattern that starts from Stan’s bellybutton, out over the top and to the sides of their baby, under the swell of it and then repeating the motion. “I’ve tried walkin’, changin’ positions, drinkin’ water, climbin’ the stairs, lyin’ down, just… I’m so fuckin’ _tired,_ Ford. I just want to fuckin’ sleep without… without gettin’ my insides battered to hell and back, everything _hurts,_ jesus christ, and these fuckin’ _hormones_ – ”

“Shhh, shhh.” Ford kisses him again, then some more as a treacherous tear makes its way down Stan’s cheek. Ford thumbs it away and pretends he hasn’t noticed. “I’m sorry you’re hurting. You’re doing great, Stanley. I’m so proud of you. Just… hang in there a few more weeks, okay? For me and for Little B.”

Stan tips his head back and blinks rapidly to clear his eyes. “So goddamn embarrassin’. I’m cryin’ over everything.”

“That's fine." They kiss again, tenderly. " _You’re_ fine.”

Stan inhales slowly before blowing out through his mouth, hands pressed to his back. Ford kneels in front of him, thumbing the underside of his belly.

“Hey baby,” he greets, smiling at the firm nudge under his hands. “Daddy Stan’s really tired and he needs to sleep. Can you try settling down for him? He’s had a long, tiring day and he’d really appreciate it.”

“Try 'long tiring eight _months',”_ Stan grumbles. Ford smacks his thigh lightly.      

“I’m going to start reading stuff that puts your Daddy Stan to sleep. I hope you can do the same.” He kisses Stan’s belly, then begins reciting the periodic table in a low sing-song. Stan had started laughing uncontrollably the first time Ford had done so (“You’re such a _nerd,_ Pointdexter, oh my _god._ I love you.”), and subsequent readings still earn him a chuckle and a fond smile. Tonight, however, Stan’s just way too tired. He continues blowing rhythmically through his mouth, eyes closed and chin tipped towards the ceiling, as Ford makes his way down the list of elements, tracing their abbreviations around his popped bellybutton as he recites them.   

He gets up to Cadmium when Stan gives one last exhale, and squeezes Ford’s shoulder in thanks. Ford kisses Stan’s belly again – the baby gives a sleepy roll in return that’s barely palpable – and gets back onto his feet.

“You’re a friggin’ _miracle worker_ , Sixer,” Stan slurs happily, sleepy from the reading himself.

Ford rolls his eyes, slings an arm around his brother, and guides the three of them back to bed.


	2. Fiddauthor + Stanley (dad!Fidds), Jealousy (M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford gets jealous of Stanley's supposedly better to-be-parenting skills.
> 
> MysteryTrio!AU timeline, pre-portal but post-divorce with Mrs McGucket. Stanford/Fiddleford, with Fiddleford as the expecting parent, and Stanley who may or may not be part of their threesome. Everything is legal when the cops aren't ar... uh, ambiguous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assume they divorced because Fidds came out and his wife has custody of Tate during his younger years. In other words, I WRITE WHAT I WANT, BECAUSE. Mentions of sex.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Stan whispers excitedly, watching as one of the two empty plastic cups on Fiddleford’s belly shifts minutely from the flurry of movements beneath it. “Fight! Fight! Fight! Kick Ford Junior One’s as… _butt!_ Go!”

“We are _not_ naming the twins Ford Junior One and Two,” Stanford deadpans from where he remains seated at the opposite end of the study. He doesn’t bother looking up from his paperwork anymore.

“They’re okay for temporary nicknames, though,” Fiddleford chuckles, placating. Ford can hear the fond but exasperated smile in the inventor’s _voice._ He has no idea how Fiddleford manages to communicate his body language through his voice alone, but he’s been getting disturbingly better at it as the months progress and he’d found himself unable to move as much. “Besides, we can’t really keep calling them Baby A and B, either.”

Stan gives a loud whoop and plops (gently) onto the couch. Fiddleford smiles at the louder twin and shifts slightly to make room, being careful not to disturb the cups resting precariously on his stomach. He huffs as one of the babies kick hard enough for a cup to shift two centimeters to the right. “Uh-oh. Might wanna keep your cheerin’ up, Stanley. Ford Junior Two’s losin’.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Stan rumbles, grinning. He pokes a finger into Fiddleford’s side. “Not on my watch, Ford Junior Two. Your uncle was the best daaaa… _dang_ boxer in New Jersey. You’re going to have the best darn boxing coach once you’re born. Leeeeeeeeft hook!” he cheers, and Fiddleford laughs as his stomach jumps, and the cup marked “Ford Jr. 1” slides off his belly and clatters softly to the floor. _“Yeah!_ Junior Two wins agaaaaain! Alpha twin! Alpha twin!”

“Alpha twin! Alpha twin!” Fiddleford choruses. He gives Stanley’s outstretched hand a high five and they both hoot.

Stanford feels his stomach twist unpleasantly. He’s _not_ jealous. Of _course_ not. Stanley’s just… being _Stanley,_ and Fiddleford, bless his kind and patient soul, was just humoring him.

“If you don’t mind keeping it down,” he grits out, and he’s definitely not growling, “some of us actually have _work_ to do.”

“Aww, don’t be so sour, Fordsy,” Stanley teases, not looking over from where he’s now giving the side where he thinks Junior Two is a high-five as well. He picks up the fallen cup from the floor. “S’not my fault _somebody’s_ always too busy workin’ like there’s no tomorrow. Somebody’s gotta spend time with the kids! And with Fiddlesticks,” he adds as an afterthought. “Poor guy’s practically confined to his bed and the couch these days, he could use some entertainment. Stanley-style!”

 _“Some_ of us,” his pen digs into his paper a little too hard. It tears, “still have _responsibilities_ to uphold.”

“And _some_ of us have a stick _way_ too far up.” Stan’s glaring now. Oh no. Fiddleford is sure he can actually see his hackles rising. “Geez, Pointdexter, chill out. Nothing wrong with a little fun. I wanna bond with my nephews! …Or nieces. Or… you know, whatever gender you guys decide you want to be…”

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, with the way you’re acting, I’d have thought you were their dad, instead of their uncle.”

Oh, god. He did _not._ Fiddleford rubs a hand down his face as Stanley literally rises to the bait.

The larger man stalks over to where Stanford is still scratching notes into his journal.  

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Stanley demands. The chair knocks back across the floor as Stanford stands up quickly, ready to fight as well. “Are you fucking _jealous,_ Pointdexter? I spend like, what, a few hours with your boyfriend every day at most while you have all of him to yourself – ”

“I am _not_ jealous,” Stanford snaps back. He totally is. Fiddleford rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts his face. “I just don’t like it when you spend all day _goofing around_ while I’m _slogging_ to keep this household together. Do me a favor and make yourself _useful_ for once – ”

“—oh, right, because you’re being a _real great dad_ , just ignoring your heavily preggers _better half_ – who’s been quietly taking all of your shit, by the way – while you bury your nose deeper into your _books_ than you’ve probably buried your dick in —”

Welp, it was now or never.

“Ow!” Fiddleford says, loudly.

Both men are by his side instantly, concern overriding their anger as they crowd around him.

“Oh my god, Fidds, are you okay – ”

 “It’s gonna be okay, Fidds, just do your breathing thing – ”

“Where does it hurt, do you need me to – ”

“ _I need the two of you_ ,” Fiddleford growls, and both men freeze in terror at the tone of his voice, “ _to stop_ – ” he slides a hand around the backs of their heads each, and smashes their foreheads together, “ – fighting!”

Stanley and Stanford give off loud, mirrored groans of pain and collapse beside the sofa, holding their heads.

“Ya got me, Fiddles,” Stanley moans, “Y’got me good. Jesus, ow… How does a skinny _twig_ like you pack so much…?”

Stanford looks up, blinking away tears. Fiddleford gives him a stern look that clearly states that they’ll need to talk later, before he plasters on a terrifyingly cheerful smile. “Much better! Ah, tranquility! Never have I known such peace.”

“Hate you,” Stan mumbles, not meaning it, giving his forehead one last rub. He glares at Ford half-heartedly, then presses a small kiss to Fiddleford’s temple in apology. “M’sorry, Fidds. Didn’t mean to hurt ya.”

Stanford does the same, not to be out-bested. He sends half-hearted daggers back at Stan as he does. “…I’m sorry, too.”

“Get over here, you knuckleheads.” Fiddleford pulls their hands onto his stomach as they do as he requests. He holds their palms there, letting them feel the babies stir and turn inside of him. The moments pass in silence until the tension in the air finally dissipates.

“…might not want to cry wolf that often, though,” Stan grumbles after a while into Fiddleford’s hair. “Won’t take ya seriously when the real thing happens otherwise.”

Ford smacks his twin’s head. Stan punches him back in the shoulder.

And just like that, things are back to normal.   

 x x x

“Do you want to tell me what that was all about?” Fiddleford asks Stanford quietly later that night, still breathing heavily as he comes down from the euphoria of their very unexpected, very _passionate,_ Ford-initiated lovemaking.  

Ford doesn’t answer for a long while, his chest heaving from his efforts. They both know he’s not referring to the sex they've just had.

Fiddleford turns onto his side with some effort in order to face his lover, and strokes Ford’s chest lightly, comfortingly, fingers trailing through the coarse hair there in unspoken question.

It’s a while, but Stanford eventually finds his voice. “M’sorry,” he mumbles. He brings up a hand and closes it over Fiddleford’s own on his chest. “…Stan’s right. I’ve been a real shitty boyfriend.”

“Hey. No.” Fiddleford kisses him. “You’ve taken over my share of the work while I’m out of commission. And you’re covering for Stan while he goes in-between jobs. You’re fine.”  

“No, I’m not. It’s _not_ fine.” Stanford lets go of their hands so he can take off his glasses for a moment to rub angrily at the bridge of his nose. “What Stan said, about everything… He’s right. And I hate that he’s right about it.” He puts his glasses back on and stares morosely at the ceiling. “…He’d make a better dad than I would. I’m just… not dad material.” He sighs, ignoring the prickle at the corner of his eyes. “The way he played with you and the children today, just… I can’t see myself doing the things he does. And it’s so _natural_ for him! When I think about it, all I see is just… me boring the twins to death about sub-atomic particles and... inter-dimensional wavelengths.”

Fiddleford kisses him again, this time for a while longer. When Ford finally looks up at him through kiss-hazed eyes, the inventor is smiling warmly at him.

“I’m their dad too, Stanford,” he reminds him. He gives the quiet twin another kiss. “We’re in this together. You, me, and the kids. We’ll work it out. So stop _worrying_ so much. You can learn. Things can change. And I’ll be here with you all the way.”

“…geez,” Stanford mumbles, embarrassed. “I thought the comforting thing was supposed to work the other way around.”

 They kiss some more. Stanford feels the lust snake through his gut again as the kisses turn heated. He groans softly into Fiddleford’s mouth. “You know… Stanley can probably hear us.”

“Let him.” Fiddleford slides over Stanford again and rolls his hips mischievously, earning him a gasp. “Show him who’s the alpha twin.”

 


	3. Fiddlestan (dad!Fidds), Lamaze and Labor (M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan has some apprehensions about pregnancy and all the messes that come with it. 
> 
> Modern!AU setting, established Stanley/Fiddleford where Stanley works as a bartender and Fiddleford is a recently graduated doctor with a PhD and a job in Nerd Stuff. Fiddleford is the expecting parent in this one. Mentions of past Mr/Mrs McG.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic descriptions of labor, no actual birth scene, mentions of Ma Pines when she was expecting Shermie. Maybe one day I'll get around to writing the Screaming Birth trope, but it is not this chapter. Mentions of sex. Tons of swearing. And marshmallow fluff up the wazoo because goddammit if I'm writing an angsty mpreg fic, I need a shitload of mpreg fluff to counteract it.
> 
> As usual, this is set in a ~*magical land*~ where men having babies is a regular thing and no one questions it or how the fuck it works. 
> 
> I mean absolutely no offense to any moms and/or moms-to-be. You people are wonderful human beans.

There were only three words Stanley Pines associated with the words “having a baby”: Screaming, Crying, and Unimaginable Agony.

As a teen, he’d been beyond excited (and perhaps a little confused, because whoa, _hello,_ age gap) to learn that he and Stanford were going to get a little brother. At first. 

Then little Shermie had decided to move out a few weeks earlier than they were expecting him. Smack dab in the middle of a traffic congestion that hadn’t moved for god only knew how long, at least a good half-hour away from the nearest hospital in decent traffic, and much too far away from home.

Stan usually picked up profanities from his father (and even then, it was only usually when the latter was inebriated, or after he’d had an especially bad work day). On Shermie’s literal birthday, however, he learnt an entire dictionary’s worth of swears in multiple languages from the one and only time he’d ever heard Ma Pines use Language.

And the screaming. Oh, the _screaming._ Stan was sure those noises were burnt into the grooves of his brain.

Stanford, the lucky son of a bitch, had been riding shotgun next to Pa, so he was at least spared the visual and physical details.

Stanley had been strapped in right next to Ma Pines in the backseat.

There had been no escape.

So, naturally, when Fiddleford had shyly but enthusiastically beckoned for the bartender to meet him in the washroom after Stan was done closing up the bar, before producing a somewhat damp, _positive_ pregnancy indicator inside a very rumpled sandwich bag that he’d obviously been carrying with him the entire day since the morning… Stan faints.

He immediately begins spewing apologies like a busted fire hydrant the second he regains consciousness.

“Stan… Stan! Calm down.” Fiddleford is still grinning, but his giddiness is giving way to more an expression of concern once he realizes that Stan hadn’t fainted due to a positive reaction. “What’s… what’s wrong? I thought you wanted kids. Oh no, please don’t tell me that you – damn it. I-I’m _sorry._ I should have talked about this with you before we – !”

“No, Fidds, it’s great, _”_ Stan interrupts. He crushes Fiddleford’s mouth against his in a fierce kiss, trying to apologize, trying to make sure Fiddleford _knows_ he’s not upset with him in any way. The abruptness of the act only seems to alarm the other more. “Fidds… Sticks, babe, I swear to you, I swear to _god…_ I’m not mad. Not in the least. This is… this is great news. I’m just…”

He cringes slightly in their embrace. “All I can think about is how much it’s going to _hurt_ you and… and I’m so fucking sorry, Fidds, I just… oh god. It’s going to hurt you and _I’m_ the cause of that hurt, and you’re going to hate me.”

The older of the two doesn’t answer for a while and Stan pulls away reluctantly, fully expecting to experience a wave of justified anger from the other.

Fiddleford’s still smiling at him.

“…what?” Fiddleford starts chuckling, as though Stan had merely made another corny attempt to flirt with him.

Stan blanches. Clearly the scientist has lost his mind. “Having the baby?” he repeats. “You know? Lots of screaming when it happens? Death threats usually start comin’ up?”

Fiddleford continues _giggling._

Stan feels his fear meter rocket from _Slight Trepidation_ to _Holy Fucking Shit I’m Toast_.

“Stan…” Fiddleford wipes at his eyes once he’s calmed down somewhat, and adjusts his glasses back on his nose, still chuckling. “What exactly _do_ you know about the process of pregnancy and childbirth?”

…what the hell kind of question was that?! “It… it _hurts,”_ he says, stupidly, still not sure what the other is driving at. “At least, I know it’s supposed to, not that I’ve ever… _had_ a baby, but back when Ma had Shermie… Do you know how many horror stories I had to listen to, when all of her friends came to his baby shower? It was like a meet up solely for exchanging way too much detail on stuff I really, really didn’t need to know about.”

“Well, they don’t make up those stories for fun,” Fiddleford agrees. Stan’s heart sinks even more. “And it’s true that having a baby does hurt. But it doesn’t always have to be the screaming nightmare you seem to think it is. Those scenarios work wonderfully for ramping up tension in television and movies, I’ll give ya that… but it’s not the only way it has to be.”

Stan just stares at him. “…you’re completely off your rocker.”

The scientist rolls his shoulders in a genial shrug, and moves to get off the floor. He offers his hand to Stanley, who’s still kneeling in a half-crouch on the linoleum floor.

“Let’s take this conversation home, shall we?”

 x x x

Stan is still too wound up by the time they get back to their apartment, so Fiddleford unwinds him the best way he knows how. (Sex. Loads and loads of sex, until the only noises of protest Stan can make are mangled whimpers of his name, because Fiddleford Hadron McGucket is an experienced pro at being the _worst goddamn fucking cocktease in the fucking universe, jesus christ, Fidds, you’re going to fucking kill me, oh god…!_ )

Once Stan has completed his metamorphosis into an unthinking, boneless pile of very sated mush on their bed, Fiddleford pulls his laptop up onto the bedspread and begins typing into the search engine. Stan tenses again once he notices that the other has loaded a video.

“You’re not…” He swallows nervously. “You’re not gonna make me watch a… a freaking video of a _baby_ comin’ out of someone, are you? Because that’s fucked up. Even for you.”

Fiddleford rolls his eyes and lightly decks his partner in the head. He tugs the larger man towards him, snaking a comforting arm around his middle (no escape, there’s no escape, and Stan once again resigns himself to his fate).

Fiddleford hits Play.

It’s… an educational video, obviously dated a few decades. And it’s actually professionally filmed, like one of those lame, ultra-safe, everyone-is-wearing-clothes Sex Ed videos they’d screened during class in his pre-teen years, complete with the company logo and slogan jingle he doesn’t recognize. (Not that he’d really expected Fiddleford to have pulled up anything disturbing sleazy to begin with, but…) A woman’s voice, not unlike those that instructed you to record your message after the beep, begins speaking over the images that transition slowly over the screen.

Stan stiffens in Fiddleford’s hold every time the scene changes to that of a woman that’s obviously going through some things with the lower half of her (thankfully offscene) body, but nothing unpleasant ever happens. The video informatively walks them through “breathing techniques for relaxation” and “birthing positions for easier deliveries” with illustrated diagrams and example photographs for reference. (And… something about llamas? What? More importantly, why?!)

He realizes with some amazement at the video’s halfway mark that there’s been zero Screaming. Zero Crying. And while the women featured all have their brows furrowed in effort and pull an occasional grimace, none of them are remotely close to the terrified, wailing banshees writhing about in agony he’d come to associate laboring mothers with.     

“Do I want to know _why_ you even know something like this exists?” he mumbles, as the video tapers off into a (rather-short) list of credits.

Fiddleford laughs quietly and clicks out of the video. He closes his laptop, and sets it back to its resting position on the bedside table, before gently pushing Stan back down into the bed and crawling atop the larger man. They kiss leisurely, the scientist carding his limber fingers through the bartender’s freed ponytail, and when Fiddleford pulls back Stan notices his cheeks have a slight tinge to them, even in the darkness of their bedroom.

“Melissa,” he says, softly. His blue eyes flicker away and back, guiltily, as they always do whenever the subject of his ex-wife comes up. Stan thumbs the jut of his shoulder blade gently in silent assurance, urging him to go on. “Friend of a friend had introduced her to the concept, back when we learnt she was expectin’ lil’ Tater Tot. Made me watch the entire series of that video I showed ya, and I attended all her Lamaze classes with her.”

“Did it, uh… work?” Stan licks his lips. Fiddleford releases a breath and nods, smiling slightly with nostalgia at the memory of meeting his son.

“Only screamin’ we heard that day was from Tate, when he was born.” He lays his head on Stan’s chest and breathes in the scent of them, idly twirling his brown locks around a finger. His accent becomes more pronounced as he gives in to the lull of sleep atop of them. “I was skeptical of the entire thing myself, when she firs’ showed it t’me, but… Seeing is believin’, I suppose. Not that every delivery will be that calm, of course – there migh’ be complications or unexpected scenarios, pain thresholds differ from person t’person, differences between male and female parents, Murphy’s law, and the like… but it’s nice t’know it doesn’t have ta be all about pain and nothin’ but. And even if it does hurt like a – ” he breaks off to yawn, and Stan presses an equally sleepy kiss to his forehead, “ – it’ll all be worth it in the end, don’cha reckon…?”

“...yeah. Guess so.” It’s still… kind of weird. At least he’ll have a few months to adjust to it.

They lapse into comfortable silence. Stan’s very close to nodding off when he remembers.

“So… wait. What’s havin’ a baby gotta do wit’ _llamas…?”_

 x x x

Fast-forward seven months, an equal number of Lamaze classes ( _“_ Still gonna call them llama classes,” Stan grouched good-humoredly, while Fiddleford had doubled over beside him with silent laughter), the same instructional videos that have been played too many times to count and three Braxton Hicks scares later, and Fiddleford is finally in labor.

Their hospital bag, long since packed and ready to go, hangs dutifully from the coat rack next to the door. The car continues rumbling warmly in the driveway, already heated and GPS set, melting the light dusting of snow that’s been cascading quietly for the last hour or so.

They’re slow-dancing across the living room, rocking quietly along to the piano that thrums out from Stan’s stereo. (He has no idea what song it actually is; he’d literally just typed in “soothing piano music” into the search bar and clicked on whatever had a playlist containing more than 30 videos in it.)  Fiddleford has his forehead pressed into Stan’s shoulder, both arms circling the larger man’s neck. He mimics Stan’s breathing, taking slow, long inhales through his nose and exhaling quietly out through his mouth, sometimes releasing it out in a long, low hum instead, as Stan coaches them through a contraction. He makes sure to keep both hands on Fiddleford’s upper back unless the other specifically requests for them to be elsewhere otherwise, occasionally needing counter pressure applied to the base of his spine.

“Forty-five seconds,” Stan reads off their phone application, once Fiddleford comes out of it. The slighter man groans again, this time in relief, and tips his head up for a kiss. Stan obliges readily. “And uh… maybe five and a half minutes in-between. …I dunno. I’m still confused on how to use the app for this.”

“Only took the whole morning, that did,” Fiddleford mutters, but there’s a tired smile to his voice. They’d been up since 4 in the morning, when the contractions had started coming regularly. The clock on the mantle announces that it’s nearly noon. “Think it might finally be time to head off, probably.”

“Oh. Good. …For you.” Stan sounds embarrassed, and Fiddleford doesn’t quite understand why until they brush a little too close together.

He stills.

Stan avoids his gaze, choosing instead to host a staring contest with the taxidermy bear in the corner of the room.

“…Stan, tell me you _didn’t_ ,” he says, slowly, finally. He’s not going to laugh. Not yet. But Stan’s face is pinker than cotton candy at this point and – oh sweet _lord,_ is this inappropriate.

“It’s not like I _wanted_ to…!” It’s Stan’s turn to bury his face into Fiddleford’s shoulder. The other starts vibrating with laughter, patting his back in understanding, and that just makes Stan cling on tighter in embarrassment. “Goddammit, you’ve been pantin’ and moanin’ in my ear for the last _six hours_ , I’d have to have… like, no blood or be dead or _something_ for that not to…!”

“You’re incorrigible. Absolutely _incorrigible.”_ Fiddleford wrestles Stan’s face away from where the bartender is attempting to put down roots into his shoulder.  Then he kisses the other deeply on purpose, just to rile him up more. (“Oh my _god,_ Sticks, I fucking hate youummph. Mmm.”)

“Just be glad I’m not in enough pain to get mad at you just yet,” Fiddleford smirks. He turns the other towards the direction of the bathroom and gives him a teasing shove. Stan flips him off, sulking. “You’ve got three minutes until the next one hits. I’ll go wait in the car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. McGucket doesn't have a canon name at this point, but I kinda liked the sound of "Melissa McGucket" so whatevs. 
> 
> I realize I tend to write McGucket like this super-seme older man thing instead of the somewhat-timid, panicked character I tend to see around fandom but come on, we're talking about the guy who jumped in front of a (memory) gun with zero hesitation to save a bunch of kids he wasn't even close with, and who ate his way through a live dinosaur with nothing but a fork, spoon and three decaying teeth. I'd like to think younger Fiddleford has more balls than his portal-scene gave him credit for.


	4. Fiddlestan (dad!Fidds), Labor Pains (M)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford goes into labor. Stan reacts, or rather, doesn't.
> 
> Modern!AU setting, established Stanley/Fiddleford where Stanley works as a bartender and Fiddleford is a recently graduated doctor with a PhD and a job in Nerd Stuff. Fiddleford is the expecting parent in this one. Mentions of past Mr/Mrs McG.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can be seen as a continuation of Chapter 3 "Lamaze and Labor" or read alone. 
> 
> Semi-graphic descriptions of labor, no actual birth scene. Kind-of-but-not-really the Screaming Birth trope. Even more swearing than the last one. And double the amount of fluff as well.
> 
> As usual, ~*magical ass-babies*~ universe. It just works.

Fiddleford thought he had been prepared.

He’d witnessed his wife go into labor before. He’d held her hand through all eighteen hours of it, had been directly next to her when Tate, red-faced and coated with a wet, clumpy film of miscellaneous goop, came screaming healthily into the world.

They’d practiced his breathing umpteen times. He was going to have a nice, calm delivery with his (own) firstborn, and it was going to be with absolutely  _no_  Screaming or Crying involved. He was positive he would be able to manage the pain, and up until that point he’d given himself a pat on the back for having done a pretty smooth job thus far.

He had been eight hours in labor (and counting) and he’d still managed to give his partner a stiffy.   _That_  alone, in his opinion, should have entitled him to a prestigious award, and several rounds of expensive toasting.

 The contractions had hurt. He’d known they would and had expected them to. They had built steadily over the course of the morning, the twinges in his lower back slowly creeping across his entire midsection, growing more insistent and vice-like until he was no longer capable of holding a conversation through them, until walking them off was no longer an option. But he  _owned_  them, owned this  _pain;_  he  _knew_  he was in absolute control over how he reacted to it as Stanley breathed deeply with him through them, as he rocked on his hands and knees, as he moaned low and deep in his throat, trembling from exertion.

He was  _ready_  for pain. He was going to roll with it when it came, and he was going to welcome that pain and show it who was boss.

His water breaks ten minutes into the car ride. Everything that happens after that goes to absolute hell.

“Mother _fuck_ ,” he grits, fingers digging so hard into his car seat he swears he’s ripped open the upholstery. His head thumps heavily back against the headrest in a useless effort to relieve some of the pain, and his back arches in his seat, straining against the seatbelt strapped uncomfortably across his swollen stomach. It’s quickly becoming the focus of his fury. His next words come out in one long, continuous groan, “Oh, jesus christ on a motherfucking  _stick,_  damnation, damn rotten, sodding, bleeping  _blankety-blank,_  holy mackerel son of a COCK.”

Stanley, knuckles white on the steering wheel and eyes glued to the road in front of them, says nothing. He knows things are Serious with a capital S once Fiddleford – sweet, tame, gentle,  _well-mannered_  Fiddleford – starts cursing enough to make even the most hardened of prisoners flinch.

“Ten minutes, babe,” Stanley says, once the long silence of Fiddleford holding his breath is broken by equally tense, harsh gasping, signaling the end of the contraction, “Hang in there. We’ll be at the hospital soon.”

“Sonuvabitch.” Fiddleford draws a shaking palm down his sweating, feverish face, and drops it limply to his side as his chest and stomach heaves. “Oh, my fucking god. Jesus fucking  _christ._  Fuck.  _Ohh._  How in god’s forsaken name did Melissa  _do_  this? Remind me to thank her when this is over.”

“I will,” Stanley assures, emptily, still concentrating very intently on the traffic in front of him. The snow is light, not enough to significantly slow them, but with every passing second feeling dragged out beyond all reason, the relatively short trip to the hospital feels like it's taking forever. 

Fiddleford checks his phone. He’s off by a couple seconds, but the application he’s downloaded for timing his contractions tells him that they’re now almost a minute long, and coming almost an equal amount of time apart. It’s nearly double the progress than when they’d left the house not fifteen minutes ago.

“Fucking water,” he growls, rubbing at his temple, thunking his forehead into his phone as he does. Thank goodness they’d had the insight to lay down a sheet prior to driving off, before he completely ruined the interior of their car. The liquid pools uncomfortably between his thighs, clinging coldly to the wet ass of his slacks and to his skin. He thinks some of it might have started running off the edge of the sheet, but at this point he can’t really find it in himself to care. “Fucking Murphy’s Law. Fucking goddamned fucking shit  _luck.”_

Stanley has long since switched off the stereo in the car (it’d proven too distracting and actually somewhat agitating for Fiddleford). The silence between them continues to stretch.

He continues taking shallow, unsteady breaths until another contraction lances through him. He hunches forward this time, curling over his stomach, free hand fumbling to grip at Stanley’s knee. The other immediately takes a hand off the steering wheel to return the grasp, squeezing helplessly.

Fiddleford is vaguely aware of Stan thumbing circles into the top of his clenched fist as he pants and groans his way through the next minute of agony. When it ends he sinks back into his seat and releases the death grip he has on Stan’s knee.

“I’m sorry,” Fiddleford mumbles. He wipes at his mouth, licking his dry lips. He needs to say it, needs to talk to Stanley before he’s taken away again. “I know this – this  _terrifies_  you, what with your previous experience of it. And I’m hurting, but it’s, it’s a good kind of hurt, because it just means there’ll be three of us sooner than we’ll realize, and it’s going to be  _worth_  it, and it’s going to be okay, Stanley. I’m  _fine,_  I’m – ”

“Oh my  _god,”_  Stanley says. The laughter that leaves him sounds slightly hysterical. “Only you, Fiddlesticks. You are the  _only_  person in this entire world who would be reassuring others that he’s okay while squeezing a watermelon-sized baby out of a hole that’s not meant to be anywhere near the same size.”   

“Stan, I’m serious. I’m sorry this scares you – that  _I’m_  scaring you – even after everything we watched and talked about, with those videos on delivery and breathing and all. But I mean it. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, it just hurts like it’s completely destroying you, that’s all.” Stan makes a turn a little too hard. Fiddleford grips his seat as he feels himself sliding somewhat across the sheet beneath him. “I swear on my early grave, I’ll never knock you up again, Fidds. I’m so fucking  _sorry.”_

“You don’t need to –  _oh god, hang on_  – ”

He clutches at his hair this time, hunching over again, and runs off every single curse word and their alternatives he’s ever heard in his entire life. But he doesn’t Scream. If there had been anyone else around to listen blindfolded, they might have simply assumed that Fiddleford was merely a very rightfully-angry husband doing his best not to yell at his obviously-guilty spouse.

“Sweet suffering JESUS.” (It’s not exactly a shout. Maybe the same decibel level as The-Voice-You-Use-When-You’re-Trying-To-Talk-At-A-Very-Loud-Concert.) “Fucking – agh –  _rice cakes_ , horse shit on a shoe, cheese on a cracker, son of a mother  _trucker_  – fuuuuuuuck, ungh!”

“Just let it all out, babe.” Stan’s voice is nearly robotic. “Just let it all out, let it all go. Breathe… Breathe…”

Fiddleford does as Stanley instructs, blowing through his cheeks as he cradles his head between his hands. He continues to keeps his voice deep and his throat open, trying to visualize with every reverberating groan that leaves him that the sound is working its way solidly and smoothly down through his body,  _down_  through his chest and past his belly,  _through_  the baby and  _out_  of him.  _Birthday candles_ , he recalls blindly, through the haze of pain as he blows through his mouth,  _blow them all out, blow them alllll out…_

When he opens his eyes again, panting, Stan has finally, thankfully pulled into the hospital. Fiddleford grabs for him before Stan can exit the vehicle. “Stanley, wait.”

Stan freezes mid-motion. He doesn’t dare to look back.

“Stanley,” Fiddleford coaxes. He gentles his voice as best as he can manage through his still-ragged breathing.

Reluctantly, Stanley turns back around to face him. He looks like a very scared child desperately trying to put on a brave face.

“Kiss me.”

“Wh—n-now?!”

But Fiddleford’s already pulled him close. He kisses the question off of Stanley’s lips, kisses the other man quietly, firmly until he feels the other move his lips against his own.

There’s a soft, smacking noise as they draw back from each other. Stan’s eyes are wide as saucers.

“What the  _hell,_  Sticks.”

“Stanley. I’m okay.” He tightens his grip on Stan’s shoulders and makes sure the other meets his eyes.  _“You’re_  okay. Listen to me.  _I love you_.”  

 “I do too,” Stan mumbles nervously, eyes darting from Fiddleford’s face to his hardened stomach, “but we should really probably get you to a – ”

“I am  _having_  our child,” Fiddleford continues determinedly, “and it is  _going_  to hurt like a son of a bitch. I might or might not have to scream whether I want to or not later. I might or might not say some things I definitely  _will not mean_  and probably won’t remember because, honestly, I’m mostly made up of pain and nothing else at this point – but it’s going to be  _okay_  and  _I. Love. You._  Do you understand?”

Stanley just stares at him for a while longer. Unfortunately, that’s when Fiddleford’s minute of grace is up.

He grips tightly onto Stanley’s shoulders as he cries out, lost to the pain, and Stanley moves in to cover the other with his burlier form, holding him close against his sturdier body, bracing the other with his thick, steady arms and murmuring soothing words of encouragement into his hair until Fiddleford’s fingernails are no longer digging into his back, as he gasps into Stan’s throat.

“Shit.” Fiddleford laughs weakly. “You’ve got my water crap on your jeans...”

Stan merely kisses him again. He returns it best as he can.

“Thank you.” Stan squeezes his forearm.

Fiddleford manages a strained smile. He draws his knuckles lightly across the other’s cheek.

Stan kisses his fingers. Then he’s shifting back, moving out of the driver’s seat so he can go grab a wheelchair for Fiddleford, and hollering for the damn nurses to come attend to his husband before he has their goddamn baby in the fucking  _car._

 


	5. Stancest (dad!Ford), Mother-Hen Stan (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley fusses way too much and Ford can't deal. 
> 
> Setting/Time-frame: Mystery Twins AU where Stan follows Ford to Gravity Falls. Established relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Separate universe from Chapter 1, but same premise. Idiots being idiots. Papa!Stan to the max. Ford proving he would probably die from lack of common house sense if Fiddleford and Stanley hadn't been around.
> 
> As usual, magical ass-babies -verse. Ignore the shitload of things that would go terribly, unspeakably wrong were incestuous, gay mpreg to actually occur in real life. 
> 
> Pure unadulterated fluff in this one. Like way, way up the wazoo.

Stanley has always been protective of him, ever since they were kids.

He’d started out by punching (or getting punched out by) anyone who dared to pick on his brother and his abnormal number of fingers. After Stanford had finally convinced him that causing bodily harm would do them more bad than good, Stan settled for cursing out (with increasingly colorful language) anyone who dared to call his “super nerdish bookworm of a poindexter brother names, because he’s _my_ brother, damn it, and only I get to call him names!”

This almost instinctual urge to constantly be Stanford’s knight in shining armor carries over with Stan through their teens, and well into their adult years. It carries even after their close relationship as twins, as brothers, transforms and deepens into something more. It carries even after they flip off social taboos and gradually, finally acknowledge each other as lovers.

Stanford Pines, newly-settled researcher of Gravity Falls and all its oddities, and Stanley Pines, also-newly-settled, odd-job handyman of Gravity Falls and the (very accepting) residents within it, learn that they – specifically, Stanford – are expecting.

And that’s when everything flips on its head, because Stanley’s protectiveness goes into overdrive.

It’s sweet, at first. Hilarious, even, because the very idea of gruff, tough, manly _Stanley,_ of all people, transitioning into a _domestic housewife_ , is uproarious. Stan offers to carry his things for him, even though he’s perfectly capable of handling his own belongings, even though he hasn’t even started showing. Ford scoffs initially, but eventually allows it.

Then Stan starts doing little things around the house that Ford had meant to get around to. Like neatly arranging the shoes back on the shoe rack (not so bad). Taking out the trash before it even reaches a quantity he can consider “full”, and they’re normally both too lazy to take it out until it’s started piling up beside and around the bin itself (not complaining, but a little weird).

Making sure Ford always has a pillow to lean against (kind of overdoing it). Making sure his house slippers, if they’re not already on his feet, are no less than one literal or figurative foot away from wherever Ford has decided to sit during the day, at all times (definitely overdoing it).

Properly folding away their goddamn underwear (what).

Ironing afore-mentioned goddamn underwear (the _fuck)._

He’s lucky if he can even pour himself a half-glass of orange juice – hell, if he can even open the freaking _fridge door_ to the orange juice – before Stan beats him to it.

It’s… _suffocating._

It’s a word that’s been occurring to him more often as of late. He knows that Stan cares for him, that it’s just how the big idiot shows his love, but… five months of constant mother-henning and over-fussing has been way too much. And he isn’t sure how much more obtuse about his feelings he has to be, before the other will realize that he needs to back off and give Stanford his space.

“I’m _pregnant,_ Stan, not an invalid,” he says, exhaustedly, for what must be the fifth time that day, and possibly the fortieth (or more. Probably more) time that month alone, “I think I can manage wiping the dishes without throwing out my back.”

“At least sit down?” Oh no, it’s his begging voice. Ford turns reluctantly to look at the other man and sure enough, the puppy eyes are out, lower lip thrust out for full effect. “You’ve been standin’ all day, _something_ probably hurts.”

“I have _not_ been standing all day. Mostly because _someone_ refused to let me leave the bed-slash-couch until I was nearly late for work, and until I nearly pissed myself in my seat.” He continues drying the dishes irritably, rubbing the cloth a little harder than he means to so that it makes small, squeaky noises against the ceramic. “So, no, my feet do _not_ hurt, and no, my back _doesn’t_ hurt, either.”

“You’re six months!”

“Twenty-two weeks.” The next dish is dried with a particularly loud rub. “And still barely showing. So there. _Nothing. Hurts._ ”

He’s not exactly ripped, but while Ford has always been the slimmer and leaner of the twins, he isn’t a beanpole, either. Stan had been extremely disappointed as the weeks came and went without any noticeable difference to Ford’s taut waistline. (In contrast, Ford had been somewhat relieved that he wasn’t ballooning out immediately.) It was only recently that any physical changes became palpable, and even so, it’s obvious only when Ford isn’t dressed. Clothing-wise, it is a mere switch from button-up pants to elastic ones, and his usual vest-sweaters are loose enough to make it look like Ford has gained nothing more than a few extra pounds around his belly. 

“Everything’s fine, Stanley. Just…” He exhales audibly, wearily. “Just please… _please_ stop worrying about things like this. It’s driving me insane.”

For a while, Stan is quiet, no comebacks. Ford thanks whatever mythological gods he has yet to discover in the Gravity Falls woods surrounding their cabin for the much needed peace.

Naturally, it doesn’t last long.

“Okay, so you’ll wipe the dishes… but let me stack them when you’re done? Don’t want you to overstretch yourself or – ”

“For _fuck’s_ sake!”

That’s it. That’s fucking _it_. He’s had enough.

The plate he’s wiping is set down with a jarring crack against the counter top (it remains intact). He hurls the rag into the now-empty sink, and spins around to glare at Stan, who’s gone wide-eyed. “I swear to _god,”_ he snaps, as Stan opens his mouth to protest again, “if you tell me not to turn around that fast in case I faint, or something equally and utterly _ludicrous_ as that, I _swear, I will strangle you!_ They’re dishes, Stanley! Freaking! Goddamn! _House dishes!_ There’s not even ten of them! You think I can’t handle this on my own?”

“I didn’t – ”

“You’ve been riding my ass about everything ever since we found out I was pregnant! 'Ford, don’t do this! Ford, sit down! Ford, be careful! Ooh, don’t _bend over_ , Ford! You might _lose your balance_ and crack that precious head of yours open!'”

“That’s because – ”

“I’m not even _doing_ anything remotely dangerous!” he shouts. The pent-up frustrations of the last months come roiling up now, like an angry monsoon rushing through his veins and flooding his entire system. Every insignificant detail that he’s ever begrudged Stan for is now recalled with crystal clarity, as he continues to assault the other, “I’m not chasing after blood hungry monsters, or digging up zombies, or – or brewing up questionable chemicals in the basement or – _just_ – I can’t even read a _book_ anymore, because I _might get papercuts!?_ ”

“Ford, would you just – ”

“NO!” Stanford roars, “I WILL _NOT!”_

He crosses the room with three angry strides and drives an accusatory finger straight into Stanley’s chest. Stan’s eyebrows immediately lower. His hunched stance, previously submissive, swiftly turns hostile. They both know how much Stanley _hates_ getting poked in the chest. It’s the one singular offensive that never fails to enrage his twin, and Ford’s completely aware of this as he repeats the motion, stabbing at Stan again and _again,_ as he continues yelling, “I AM NOT A GLASS DOLL, STANLEY! LEAVE – ME – _ALONE!_ ”

The last word is emphasized with a particular vehemence, as he thrusts his palms against Stan’s chest and throws him back against the false wall.

Stanley stumbles, flailing. His arm knocks off the wall-phone. He takes down a few of the various kitchen miscellanea lying on the kitchen table, as he grips wildly at the air, as he staggers and fails to keep his balance. He ends up falling on his tailbone with a loud yelp, as the fallen containers and utensils clatter loudly about him. 

They stare at each other.

Ford pants, fists clenched so hard his nails are digging into his own palms. Stan's brows are furrowed, eyes narrowed so deeply that the whites are barely visible.

The room fills with silence once more. This time it’s uncomfortable. Raw. Dangerous. The last time they’d fought like this, when Ford had pushed Stan away from him, Stan had gotten kicked out of the Pines’ household.

Stan seems to think he’s been given the same message this time around as well. He only holds his glare for a few more seconds before he just… deflates.

“Okay.” There’s no inflection to his tone. Stan picks himself up off the floor, brushes himself off. “Fine.”

Ford turns away and continues to stare the kitchen stove down as he hears Stanley pick up his keys and exit the cabin. A while later, the rumble of the Stanmobile sounds from outside, and then the crunch of gravel beneath tires as he pulls out and away from the house.

His ears ring with how quiet it suddenly is.

 x x x

Stanley doesn’t return that night.

Or the night after that.

Ford ignores it (like he has before). Ignores the little nagging voice in the back of his head that keeps shouting at him to _Go look for that knucklehead, you knucklehead! You know how he broods! Go find him and make sure he’s okay!_

 _Actually_ , he counters, sipping his hot cocoa while he turns a page of the latest science article, _I kind of like this._

 _No, you’re just being an ass. A haughty, pompous ass. Go_ find _him._

 _Nope._ He slurps his drink noisily and childishly on purpose, relishing the noise it makes in the empty room. The room that Stanley isn’t in. The room that Stanley isn’t telling him to put his feet up so he doesn’t get swollen ankles, isn’t telling him to sleep on his left side because it’s better for the baby that way, isn’t telling him he should get to bed early because you need more sleep to make up for all the growing energy the baby is using, isn’t –

“Oh my god,” he groans aloud. He’d gotten away from Stanley’s nagging, only to get nagged at by the phantom Stanley in his head. Or maybe he’s just gotten so used to Stanley’s voice that he can practically hallucinate it into reality. Great. Just what he needs.

“I _like_ it,” he announces to the room. His voice echoes slightly off the walls. “I’m doing what _I_ want. Whatever _I_ want, whenever _I_ want. I _want_ this.”

Yes. He doesn’t need Stan. He’s never needed Stan.

He finishes his cocoa and the article he’s reading (poorly written, but made some decent points. Not an author he would likely have to concern himself with in his field, in any case). He moves to get up and shivers as his feet hit the cold floor.

Right. Slippers. He’d left them outside the bedroom.

…again.

…for the second day in a row.

…where he’d kept on forgetting to retrieve them.

“I don’t need slippers,” he grumbles.

He stands up and shudders again before picking his way across the tiles so he can dump his mug in the sink. The very-full sink that he’s been too lazy or distracted to clean out recently. 

Ford contemplates the teetering pile of ceramics in the sink for a minute. Then, slowly, very delicately, with all the precision of a surgeon stitching thread-thin capillaries together, he edges his mug onto the very top of it.

The mug slides snugly into a concave space at the top of the pile.

Ford releases his breath, and his hold on the mug’s handle, like it’s burnt him. It stays balanced.

“…Yes.” He pumps his fist.

The miniscule shift in the air from his actions kiss the pile of ceramics. They crash, horribly.  

Ford sighs. He can pick up disposable cutlery the next time he goes to the store.

x x x

Apparently the next time he goes to the store is never.

Ford keeps getting distracted. He wakes up at his usual time, and then realizes that because there’s no one to prepare his plate of breakfast for him by the time he’s out of the shower, his “usual” time is now his “late” time. That means he has to wake up earlier, which means he has to sleep in earlier. Which means he has less time to work. Which means he has to work faster. Which means he has to juggle time for work between doing very tedious, but unfortunately necessary, daily activities. Like cooking lunch. And cooking dinner. Washing the laundry. And then rinsing out the same mug he’s used for various drinks because it's just too much hassle to re-wash the other mugs that are still in the sink from four days ago.

Ford has always been a master at ignoring the obvious, but when the trash starts to sag out of its overstuffed container, and when he actually gags a little every time at the smell that emanates upon entering the kitchen, he has to concede.

“Goddamn it, Stan, you’ve spoilt me,” he mutters, pinching his nose with a free hand and gingerly holding out the trash bag before him like it’s been contaminated, as he shucks it into the dumpster. The knot comes loose upon impact and it spills over onto the grass. Ford hangs his head.

“How in the hell did I get through college—oh. Right. I had Fiddleford.”

x x x

Stan had been hounding him to let him feel their baby move, ever since Ford had felt the first flutters around the eighteenth week. Stan wouldn’t have been able to feel them from the outside, however, at least not until much later into his second trimester, and especially with how little give his abdomen muscles are yielding at the moment.

The baby _kicks_ him during the fifth evening. Ford bolts upright in bed.

 _“Stan,”_ he hisses, excited.

He presses his palm to his not-flat-anymore stomach to confirm it and – there is it again! Holy crap, he can actually feel it!

He rolls over to flip on the night light and then turns back, grinning widely. “Stan, _wake up_ , you’ve got to – ”

There’s nothing but a cold, undented pillow, and untouched sheets beside him.    

Ford flops back down. The rush of adrenaline slowly thumps away as his heartbeat slows and grows sluggish, disappointed… remorseful.

The baby kicks him again, in sequence, and harder this time.

_Go. Look. For. Him!_

Ford groans – in resignation, now – and hoists himself out of bed.

(He swears again when his feet hit the cold floor. Goddamn slippers.)  

x x x

It takes him a while (since Stanley had done him the courtesy of taking their only mode of transportation around the town), but Gravity Falls isn’t an exceedingly large town, and where Stan prefers to hang out is obvious.

He’s one of the last customers to leave Greasy’s Diner. Stan’s just nursing a half-full mug of beer and a barely-touched portion of steak and potatoes when Ford shows up to his table.

Stan startles at first, then quickly tries to mask his obvious delight and relief that Ford had (finally) come for him, with a poor imitation of a scowl. “Yeah? Wh… What.”

Ford shuts his eyes, inhales, and then pulls out from behind his back… what appears to be a cardboard sign with battery-operated Christmas lights taped to the edges. On the cardboard, scrawled in a permanent marker that’s obviously coming to the end of its days, are the words “I’M SORRY” in Ford’s cursive. There’s a crying sad face next to it.

Stan raises an eyebrow as Ford hangs the sign around his neck, flips the switch to turn on the lights and music… and begins bending his knees and arms in time to the poorly-rendered tune that blares out of the device.

“ _I’m Ford, and I was wrong,_ ” Ford sings. (Thank _god_ the diner was mostly empty, but he’d have done this during the day anyway, too.) The lights make little clattering noises against the cardboard sign with his movements. “ _I’m singing the Ford Wrong Song. I shouldn’t have been an ass… Now here’s my remorseful dance!_ ”

He gives a few (low-ranged, non-strenuous) kicks for emphasis as he says the last phrase, and ends it off with sheepish jazz hands.

 _“What,”_ Stan looks like he isn’t sure whether to be mollified or horrified, “What the _hell_ was that?”

“The Ford Wrong Song.” Ford does his jazz hands again and waggles his eyebrows. “Do you like it?”

“…I’m not even sure how to respond to this,” Stan says, finally. But there’s a lilt to his lips that hadn’t been there a minute ago.  

“Well, you know what they say. Second time’s the charm.” Ford resets the Christmas lights and prepares to dance again. Stan stops him this time.

“ _What the hell, Ford,_ ” he echoes. There’re creases at the corners of his eyes that only appear when he’s trying not to laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Ford repeats. He raises the cardboard sign around his neck. “I was wrong, I was an ass. Please come back. I miss you.” He pauses. “Plus, the dishes are kind of getting out of hand.”

“Screw you, asshole.” Stanley starts laughing. Ford grins, despite himself.

They pull each other into a hug, Ford still standing next to the table, Stanley still in his seat. Ford sighs and buries his head into Stan’s scent and god, he has been an _idiot_ to think he didn’t need Stanley.

He pulls back so he can kiss Stan. The other hasn’t shaved ever since he’d left the house, it seems. (Or brushed his teeth. Or that might just be the beer he was drinking. Either way, gross.) But he kisses Stanley sincerely and apologetically, and squeezes the other’s arms when they draw away again.

“Stanley, I’m – ”

“No, Ford, shut up,” Stan says, then winces when he realizes he’d indirectly requested Ford to do something again, “I mean, _don’t_ , don’t shut up… Just. Argh! Why are you so _difficult?_ Look, I’m sorry, too. I’ve had time to think about it and… I didn’t… didn’t realize how much hovering I was doing. And you did tell me to tone it down a few times, I just… I dunno. I’ll try not to overdo it next time.”

“I still shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.” Ford lets himself be pulled up and into the space besides Stan. He leans against his brother again, rests his head on Stan’s shoulder. Stan plants a kiss into his hair and entwines their fingers in their laps. God, he’d missed this. He’s been an _idiot._ “And I probably shouldn’t have let it drag out for almost a week. But just… urgh, you were really pissing me off. Just, everyday! About everything!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan shushes him and presses their lips together again. He thumbs across the six knuckles of Ford’s hands. “I know. And I’m sorry. You’re right, too, I shouldn’t… shouldn’t have treated ya like an invalid. Or excessively babied ya. …Even if you have piss-poor house keeping habits, as you’ve so kindly validated.”

“Burn in a fire.” Ford headbutts him, not enough to hurt. “Still wasn’t a reason for me to be an ass to you. I’m sorry. I guess we both got a bit stupid.”

“Not stupider than you,” Stan jests and Ford groans. Fine. Stanley wins this one, even if they’ve both apologized.

“Are you… um.” Stan hesitates, then snakes a hand behind them so he can rub up and down at Ford’s back. Ford hums his approval. His back doesn’t ache still, but the contact is nice. “Look, I’m dumb – ”

“You are _not_ dumb, Stan. You know this.”

“ – I am _dumb,”_ Stan repeats insistently, “and if ever come on too strong again I need you to tell me, ‘You’re pissing me off, that’s too much, stop.’ And I’ll stop.”

“I… _did._ That’s what I did the first time, oh my god,” Ford says, unsure whether to laugh or cry, but Stan shakes his head.

“I know better now. Won’t keep brushing it off next time. I’m still gonna worry and fuss over you, but… _tell me_. A’ight? Now,” he says, before Ford can cut him off again, and he presses his fingers a little harder on either side of Ford’s spine, making him groan in a decidedly different manner than earlier, “You walked here. Right? How are you feelin’?”

“...a little tired, actually,” Ford admits. He hasn’t slept very well the last few nights without Stanley. “But I’m fine. Anyway, physical activity is good for the baby. …And for me.”

“…okay,” Stan concedes. He sounds a little reluctant and Ford knows he’s just dying to ask him to not do anything strenuous for the next year or so, but… it’s progress. He pecks the corner of Stan’s mouth in thanks. The other beams. “Don’t push yourself too hard. Do you… want a foot rub? Or anything?”

“No.” He tugs gently on Stan’s hand behind him, pulls it around to his stomach. Stan’s fingers immediately part slightly to be able to better cup the slight curve of his belly through the sweater. “But, speaking of physical activity…”

He trains his gaze on Stan’s face.

There’s a beat or two of nothing. Just as Ford decides the night is going to end anti-climatically after all, Stan’s eyes grow huge as the baby greets him.

He actually shrieks.

“ _Holy shit!_ ” he whispers, his smile so big it’s threatening to split his face in two, “holy _shit,_ Sixer, is that…?! Oh my god! I feel her! I can _feel_ her!”

“’Her’?” Ford parrots, scoffing, but Stan Smiles are always contagious. “How do you know?”

“I don’t.” He pauses, still grinning fondly down at Ford’s slight belly. The baby stirs once more, dragging what feels like a limb across the top of his stomach, and then quiets. But Stan still keeps his hand on Ford, rubbing gently in small circles, almost reverently, eyes shining a little more than usual. “Hey! Wanna bet on it?”  

“…dishes for a month,” Ford agrees. “And taking out the trash. And diaper duty.”

Stan snorts. “Oh, yeah, because I’m totally not going to be doing those anyway once the baby gets here.”

 _…or once we reach back home. Whoops._ There are five-day-old abominations in every possible corner and crevice of the cabin by now, but Stan doesn't need to know that. Not yet. 

Ford keeps a straight face. “Of course not.”

 


	6. Fiddlestan (dad!Fidds), Request - Recovery (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt from aleja08: “Mullet stan with recovering fiddles?”
> 
> I'm writing up a couple of short little drabbles as thank-yous, based on some requests I've gotten in the comments section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of about five or six of them! Sorry for taking so long on these. 
> 
> 1 x 300-drabble, young!Fiddlestan AU, implied past mpreg. Slightly angsty-ish.

The months _after_ the baby is born seem even worse.  

Cramps. Soreness and discharge. Residual bleeding. Postpartum blues. Incontinence, from both ends. The list goes on.

The baby cries. _A lot._ At anytime of the day and/or night, and apparently there’re supposed differences between a Hungry Cry and a Tired Cry or whatever the fuck but Stan really can’t tell shit. All he knows is that Fiddleford needs as much rest as he can get. He hauls himself out of bed at the first wail from the nursery, and doesn’t return until their child is the picture of sated peace.

Fiddleford’s waiting for him when he returns on this night. He lets Stan babble wildly into his chest as he runs his fingers through the other man’s long, unkempt hair.

“’I’m so tired’,” Stan gasps, “but shit, how can I _say_ that? What kind of selfish bastard would I be to complain about being _tired_ , when _you’re_ still hurting, when you can barely get out of bed some days, even...?!”

“Stanley.” Fiddleford sounds weary. “Stop. This isn’t about you, or me – it’s about _us_. It’s hard for both of us, but… it’s going to be okay.”

 _How are you dealing with this?_ he wants to yell, _How can you say such things at a time like this?!_ Instead, he wraps his arms back around the other and tries to compress all of the emotions he’s unable to express vocally into the strongest, fiercest hug he can give the other.

“It’s going to be okay,” Stan repeats. He feels a little better as the words leave his lips and so he says it again, and again, and again. Fiddleford smiles tiredly as he tugs them down and rests his forehead against the other, and their worries eventually succumb to their exhaustion.


	7. Stan, Ford (dad!Stan), Request - Ultrasound (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt by nipnips: "if you need ideas an ultrasound chapter would be cool. or a holding your kid for the first time would be cute"
> 
> I'm writing up a couple of short little drabbles as thank-yous, based on some requests I've gotten in the comments section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are kinda from a larger modern!AU I've been thinking about writing (but might never get around to), where the twins are teens, Stan was born female but forced to be brought up as a male, and while the baby isn't Ford's (as they're both purely platonic in this verse) he sticks around to help Stan with and through his decision of keeping the child. 
> 
> 3 x 100-drabbles. Non-explicit, but covers the topics of ultrasounds, babies moving, and waterbirth.

Most expecting parents tended to have that aura of pure compassion around them. They exuded love, kindness, gentleness, and all things instinctively maternal. If those feelings were allowed to get any stronger, Stanford’s sure flowers would start sprouting where they walked.

Stanley exudes the complete opposite.

“Holy shit,” he laughs. He jabs a finger at the ultrasound, gleefully. “Look at it, _look_ at this little bastard! He looks like a friggin’ demon! Oh – wait! I’ve got one! I’m literally carrying… wait for it… _hellspawn!”_

“We’ll see ourselves out,” Ford tells the gynaecologist while Stanley continues to laugh himself into hysterics.

x x x

The baby moves a lot, and Stan _loves_ it.

Ford doesn’t get it. Personally, it makes his stomach roll (no pun intended).

“Doesn’t that _hurt_?” he winces, when a very obvious lump of _something_ pushes itself up, and out, and drags itself slowly across the top of Stan’s stomach like a little breaching stomach-whale, before sinking back under the skin.

“It’s fuckin’ _awesome_ , that’s what it is.” Stan huffs with some discomfort but continues grinning proudly. He starts playfully nudging the baby lumps back, like his stomach is some kind of Whack-A-Mole, “Whooooo’s my little Chestburster? That’s right – you are!”

x x x

Stan’s labor is long and difficult but he tackles the pain like a champ.

“Fuuuuuuuuucking shiiiiiiiiiiiit,” he groans loudly, as both Ford and the doula fight to keep a straight face, because this shouldn’t be funny, this _shouldn’t_ be funny… “Soooooon of a biiiiiiiiitch. Fuuuuuuuuuuck.”

Eventually it gets too intense for him to even swear. They move him to the tub and three hours later, Stan’s son is born.

 _“Oh my_ god _, you’re fugly,”_ Stan shrieks, laughing as he lifts it out of the water, “You ugly _bastard_ , look at you! …oh, whoops, guess they got that wrong – hey, pumpkin!”


	8. Fiddlestanwich (dad!Ford), Request - Ford causes heart attacks (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gemstarre requested: "Ford causing Stan and/or Fidds heart attacks, dadFord x Fidds"
> 
> I'm writing up a couple of short little drabbles as thank-yous, based on some requests I've gotten in the comments section.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fidds being the parent isn't explicitly stated in this one, but he is lol
> 
> Pure crack. 100-drabble, warning for birth mention

 Stanford is a workaholic.

This wouldn’t be so bad if said workaholic wasn’t currently expecting and wasn’t also presently doing questionably dangerous fieldwork.

“They wouldn’t hurt a fly,” he snorts, as Stan and Fiddleford carry him away from the rampaging herd of Forest Bull, screaming.

“They’re harmless!” he scoffs, as they fend off the flock of very angry Cockatrice with mirrors and clubs.

He’s _still_ taking notes when he goes into labor in the middle of an expedition.

“I need that Golem _alive_ , Stan, so try not to – ”

 _“FOR FUCK’S SAKE STANFORD I CAN SEE THE HEAD,”_ Fiddleford shrieks.


	9. Stancest (dad!Ford), Request - Tummy Love (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Anon + Jessica who requested: "more of these two (the Stan twins) being all lovey and fluffy" + "more stance(st)"
> 
> I'm writing up a couple of short little drabbles as thank-yous, based on some requests I've gotten in the comments section.
> 
> 300-drabble, pure diabetic fluff. Excuse me while I go find my insulin shots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the same universe/timeline as Chapter 5, but can be read either as a sequel or a standalone. Mystery!Twins AU where Stan followed Ford to Gravity Falls.  
> Ignore the problems gay, incestual pregnancies would cause in real life, because this is fiction, and anthyding can hadplen.

“What exactly _is_ your fascination with my stomach?”

The question comes as they’re not-really-watching TV, snuggled up against each other under the comforters in the not-quite-ready-to-sleep-yet moments before the day draws to a close. It doesn’t have any bite to it, simply vaguely-amused curiosity.

“No idea what you’re talkin’ about,” Stan says, without removing his large, warm palms that have been resting on the other’s heavily-rounded abdomen. Ford lightly headbutts the other and they share a chuckle.

“Seriously, though.”

“ _Seriously_ ,” Stan parrots mockingly, “you have to _ask_?”

He rolls his eyes. “I thought it was because you wanted to feel him move, at first, but… you’re touching me every chance you get, now. Not that I’m complaining,” Ford assures him, and Stan immediately relaxes again, “I… like it? It’s nice. Pretty uncharacteristic for you to display so much affection, I’ll admit, but… I can’t see what possibly attracts you _this_ much to it.”  

Stan shrugs.

“It’s just… not the same as touchin’ _just_ you. Or _just_ the baby, once she’s born. Y’know?” He sounds wistful. Ford entwines their fingers, encouraging him to continue, “This is the only time I’ll get t’touch you _an’_ her like this. When she’s still inside’a you.” He grapples with his next words before mumbling, “…Maybe it’s because I can’t feel her the same way you do. Wanna be close, too.”

Ford groans affectionately. “Get over here, you _idiot..._ ”

He cups Stan’s face and kisses him fiercely, but they’re quickly separated when the baby kicks hard enough for both of them to hiss.

“See what I mean?” Stan jokes, already rubbing comforting circles over the site of activity.

“You can have him,” Ford grumbles. He weathers a second blow and huffs. “I’ve had enough.”

“Her.”

 _“Him.”_

_“Her.”_ Stan grins.

Ford smirks. “We’ll see in three weeks.”


	10. Fiddlestanwich (dad!Stan) - Morning Sickness (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is dedicated to and for Gemstarre, who requested "Fiddlestanwich next? Don't care who's expecting but lots of cuddles is always nice.", and also for being an absolute dear. Thank you! :'D
> 
> Freeform, 2,600+ words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MysteryTrio!AU, all three are in a sort-of-not-really-but-might-as-well-be-relationship with each other. This started out crack, which turned into fluff, and then turned into angst, and... I'm sorry. IT WAS SUPPOSED TO STOP AT FLUFF.

_“I don’t get it.”_ Fiddleford paces the living room worriedly. Ford mirrors him, moving in the opposite direction. The most wretched of ralphing noises continue to echo horribly from the guest bathroom, where Stanley’s still throwing his guts up for what seems like the fiftieth time that week alone. “I barred you from the kitchen, so it’s definitely _not_ your cooking – ”

“ – and I monitored his take outs.” Ford counts them off on his twelve fingers. “He had McDumbDumb’s only once this week, Gravity Fallin’ Good twice, and the rest of it was spent picking off whatever food in the house he could retain long enough to actually digest.”

“I’m fairly certain it isn’t my cooking.”

“No one’s said anything about _your_ cooking, McGucket.”

“Good, _as it should be_ , unless this household wants to waste away from malnutrition.”

“Could we focus?” Stanford rakes a hand through his hair in agitation. Stanley’s started sobbing in the background between heaves. (“Why,” – retching noises – “god?” – more retching noises – “Whhh-hhy-yyy?!”) “We ate the same things! And Stan’s appetite has actually _decreased_ lately, so that makes even _less_ _sense_ as to why he’s sick. I don’t understand!”

“Okay. Switch tactics.” Fiddleford taps his chin as he and Ford circle around each other. “What has Stanley done that _we_ haven’t?”

“Just food-wise, or…?”

“Anything and everything.” Fiddleford racks his memory. “He’s been on every expedition that we were on…”

“I made sure he didn’t ingest anything inedible that _looked_ edible this time,” Stanford mutters.

“We already know it’s not the food, so that rules that out. Pay attention.”

“How could this happen to me?” Even more retching noises.

“He hasn’t touched any of the chemicals nor materials in the basement. I do an inventory count every day, so I'm positive.”

“He’s worn the same shirt and pants for at least a week by now…”

“At least he still bothers to change his underwear.”

“There’s nothing!” Fiddleford explodes. “It’s been nothing _but_ routine! Honestly, the last time we did anything that deviated even _slightly_ from the norm was at least two months ago when… when… oh.”

Fiddleford trails off. He turns around, very… very slowly.

“Stanford.”

“Yes,” his employer responds, with the exact same tone of perceptive trepidation.

“Do you remember That Night? The one where we all three of us got really… _reaaally_ wasted on Leprechaun moonshine? That Night we all agreed to _never speak of again?”_

 _“Yes,”_ Stanford repeats again, resigned.

“Wasn’t that the same day Stanley fell into the Babbling Spring of Fertility, or something...?”

“Brook,” Stanford deadpans, “and no, he jumped in screaming about being a ladies’ man and promptly gave himself a concussion, before half-drowning himself face-down in the water. Apparently my brother lacked the common sense to realize that particular stream was far too shallow for diving.”   

“Stanley was always rather understaffed in that department,” Fiddleford remarks dryly, “but you understand where I’m heading with this. You… _do_ , don’t you?”

Stan seems to have quieted down inside the bathroom by this point, although there’s no movement nor sound to indicate he’s left his position by the toilet. Ford shrugs helplessly.

“How… how should we…?”

The inventor sighs heavily and squares his shoulders. “…I’ll do it. It was my fault I snuck that moonshine back that night and got y’all drunk, after all.”

“Excellent,” Ford says. “I was hoping you’d take the blaaa... that is, you’re more tactful than I am. I’m sure Stanley’ll understand it once you explain the situation to him.”

_“Thanks, boss.”_

They walk stiffly to the bathroom door. They can make out the vague noises of Stan whimpering pathetically, coughing occasionally as he tries to catch his breath. The slighter of the two scientists raps softly on the wood.

“Stan? Couldja open up?”

There’s a pause in the sniffling, then the toilet flushes. Eventually the door creaks open to reveal Stanford’s rather pale-faced, watery-eyed twin. His normally slicked hair is completely mussed up, and there’re a few stains on the front of his white shirt and over the thighs of his jeans that Fiddleford doesn’t quite want to think about.

“So? Did you nerds figure out what magical asswipe’s been makin’ me sick yet?” God, Stanley looks, sounds _and_ smells terrible. “’cause I’m sure as _hell_ gonna enjoy beatin’ the shit outta it once I’m able to physically divorce Ms Porcelain, here.”

Fiddleford’s resolve crumbles just the slightest bit but he clears his throat and gets down on one knee so he’s level with the bulkier twin, who’s still hunched over the toilet bowl. He fiddles nervously with his tie clip.

“Stanley,” he begins, cautiously at first, then quickly, like ripping a band aid off, “we think you might be pregnant.”

“Wait, WHAT?!” both twins shout.

Fiddleford whirls on Stanford, flabbergasted. “What – Were _you_ paying attention at all to what we were previously discussing?!”

“How can Stanley possibly be _pregnant?!”_ Stanford looks bewildered, but also terrified. “Good _god_ , man, this isn’t the time for jokes!”

“You –! I can’t believe – ! WE JUST TALKED ABOUT THIS,” Fiddleford yells at him. He tugs at his hair in exasperation. _“What in_ blazes _didja think was wrong wit’ him, then?!”_

“Expired moonshine…?” the other offers, feebly.

Fiddleford clamps his lips together, hunches over himself, and releases a shrill, suppressed kettle-whistle of boiling rage.

“Newsflash, Fiddlesticks: still had a dick when I woke up this mornin’.” Stanley lays his head back on the closed toilet lid and shuts his eyes tiredly. “Also pretty sure you guys stuck it in the right hole the last time we, uh, _did it_ , considering, y'know, I don’t really _have_ any other holes for – ”

 _“For the love of – ”_ Fiddleford leaps upright and thrusts a shaking finger at Stanley. “ – the _SPRING_ , DAGNAMMIT!”

“ _Brook_ ,” Ford corrects, automatically. “It was a – ”

“ – Stanford Filbrick Pines you _sit down right now before I backhand you into oblivion_ ,” Fiddleford snaps. Ford drops down in place as obediently as a trained puppy. The inventor spins back around to glare at Stanley, “You fell into that brook, spring, _whatever_ – that water was _contaminated!_ We hazarded guesses to its properties, considering the hundred-meter radius of abundant flora and fauna that surrounded it – but we didn’t think it was capable of actually bypassing the biological laws of _gender!_ Which, in your case, it clearly _has!”_

 _“I think the twig finally snapped,”_ Stanley whispers loudly at Stanford, who nods mutely.

“FINE!” Fiddleford throws his hands up and walks backwards out of the corridor and out of the house. “I’ll prove it! I’ll prove that Stanley Pines _is_ pregnant, even if it doesn’t make an absolute lick of sense!”

x x x

He slams the bag down on the kitchen counter. Small rectangular boxes spill out across the table, some clattering to the floor.

The brothers stare at the mound of pregnancy test kits with apprehension and disbelief.

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” Fiddleford simpers, folding his arms as he shifts his weight onto a hip, “I thought I’d take the necessary precautions. You know, _in case one of you accused me of tampering with the results_ , or the tests themselves. The seals on e _very single one_ of those boxes are unbroken. Take the test as many times as you want. By the way, Stanford, this is coming out of _your_ paycheck, since Stanley’s your brother.”

“…that doesn’t even – ?!”

“ _Piss_ ,” Fiddleford orders, towering over the twins as he marches up to Stanley with a fistful of test kits. The other cowers, but takes them. “Go. Now!”

 x x x

 _Every single test_ comes up positive.

All forty-nine of them.

“HAH!” Fiddleford crows, when the very last package turns into a damning plus sign as well. “I _told_ you! _Stanley’s pregnant!”_

His triumphant expression drops abruptly.

“Stanley’s pregnant,” he repeats, more to himself than to the other two equally stunned males in the room. He slides down the wall to join them on the floor. “ _Stanley’s_ preg… oh sweet jesus lord have _mercy christ on a cracker stick_ – ”

“Stanley, do you remember checking off that box that says you’ll donate your body to science if you ever die in the future?” Stanford demands urgently.

“If I _what,”_ Stanley says.

“You would be the giant leap for mankind, Stanley.” Ford grasps his brother by the front of his vomit-stained shirt and slowly shakes him, his pitch growing fevered, “or womankind, or, well, whatever it is you’re supposed to be now – the tests work based on the amount of human chorionic gonadotropin present in your urine, after all, which begs the question, really – does this mean you have a placenta? Where did it attach to? Would this be considered an ectopic pregnancy? Or did it directly modify your biology and give you a uterus? Stanley, if you do die any time during this course of events, I’d dearly love to be able to dissect you – ”

 “Are ya outta yer mind?!” his brother yelps, scrambling back from him, “Go get _yourself_ pregnant, you nut job!”

“That is a _splendid_ idea.” Stanford’s eyes are shining. “I never thought I’d say this, Stan, but – you’re a _genius_.”

“FELLAS!” Fiddleford’s recovered his senses, and he slams his fists on the counter, gaining their attention as the empty boxes slide off onto the floor, “NO ONE is _cuttin’ up anyone_ , or gettin’ _even more pregnant than they need to be!_ Not until we figure out exactly _what_ in tarnation’s goin’ on wit’ Stanley, and how we’re gonna deal wit’ it!” He licks his lips, frowning. “… _with_. Wi-thhhhhh it. _With_ it. Dang it, why does my accent always – ”

“Fidds is right.” Stanford’s emerged with his ever-ready pen and paper. He clicks the ballpoint impatiently. “The important questions first, then. Did you, or did you not, Stanley Pines, check off that box on your – ”

“ – oh, fer _chris’sakes,_ Ford – !”

“You don’t understand!” Ford blurts excitedly, “this is _literally_ unheard of! There’ve been stories, _rumors_ about alien abductions, supposed tales of humans being impregnated by alien life forms whose offspring were later reclaimed by the alien parent in question – but all known cases recorded have been of human _females!_ This could very well be the first documented case of a _human male_ bearing young!”

 _“Damn it,_  Ford – he’s still your brother! And we don’t even know if the process will be fully viable! As many as fifty percent of _normal, standard pregnancies_ end in miscarriages – ”

 “ – well, then _all the more reason_ we should – !”

“ – I can’t _believe_ you would even _consider –! ”_

“Is anyone going to ask _ME_ what I think?!” Stan yells, and the sudden outburst causes both scientists to halt in their bickering, wide-eyed at the volume of emotion in it, “Or how _I_ feel? About _any_ ’a this?! I don’t _care_ about findin’ out _how_ the hell a baby got in me! _It’s Gravity fuckin’ Falls!_ We see weirder shit than this every day! All I wanna know is which one of you two bastards is the dad, so I can _shove my foot up yours, and whether I can KEEP THE DAMN THING!!”_

It’s like a bomb’s gone off. The air rings with deadly calm, Stan’s ragged panting the only indication that time is still passing by.

“You…” Fiddleford’s floundering for words. “You’re sure it was _us_ …?”

Stanford’s eyes are comically round behind his glasses. “You want to _keep_ it…?”

“Yes, and _yes!_ ” Stan snaps. He’s withdrawing now, belatedly realizing he might have admitted too much, wrapping his arms defensively across his midsection and he hunches over and shrinks back against the wall even as his mouth works a mile a minute, almost rambling, “I fool around a lot with men an’ women plenty but I’ve _never_ … you guys were the _only_ ones, okay?! I went out and drank and messed around after That Night, but I didn’t…! I’d never – ! And I’m _not_ gonna be the asshole that dad was! Yeah, the kid might’ve been an accident, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be _unwanted!_ It wasn’t its fault or its _choice_ for fuckin’ EXISTING TO BEGIN WITH!!”

They’re both too stunned to respond and so Stan just… keeps going, his voice growing more and more unstable the longer he talks, “Fuckin’… _shit_ , I’m not going to have it and then let it _rot on its own growin’ up_ _just because I didn’t plan for it._ I’m _not_ going to do what Pa did to…!”

A blur of brown rushes by Fiddleford towards Stanley, and before he knows it both the twins are clutching at each other for dear life. Stanford’s pulled Stanley close to him, murmuring soothingly and rapidly into his ear while Stan just shakes in place with his fists clenched, stoutly refusing to break.

It’s obviously something that stems from both of their pasts, and Fiddleford averts his gaze, deeply embarrassed. He feels like he’s intruding on something personal, something private between these two strange brothers whose bonds with each other definitely ran deeper than familial, and even with all the time he’s spent with them, despite how close all three of them have gotten… he’ll never be a part of moments like these.  

At least, that’s what he thinks until Stanley growls at him over his twin’s shoulder, red-eyed, “The _hell_ are you waitin’ for, Sticks, an invitation?! Get your ass in this stupid group hug already! I’m embarrassed enough as it is!”

He doesn’t have time to protest. Both the Stans reach out for him, like some blubbering, four-armed, snot-nosed monster, and crush him relentlessly in their embrace.

“ _Choking_ ,” he informs them, pounding on the arm tightly wrapped around his windpipe – Stan’s? Ford’s?! – while simultaneously trying to comfort both of them as they drip various fluids from various facial orifices all over his dress shirt, and Stanford owes him a new tie now, “oh sweet mother of _god_ , I’m actually _embarrassed_ for the both of you, honestly – stop – stop _cryin_ ’, for goodness’ sakes – _no one’s_ going to cut anyone up, or take anything away that you don’t want to, or – ”   

x x x

“You…” Fiddleford is speechless. “You made an antidote…?”

Stanford taps the vial. The clear, lavender-tinged liquid looks almost innocuous.

“It won’t hurt him,” Ford says. He pauses, then sighs and lowers the vial. “Well. Not... Not physically, at least. It’s hard to read the emotional and mental stability of mice.”

“Don’t you dare,” Fiddleford says, his voice dangerously quiet, “give this to him without his knowledge. I’m warning you, Stanford, as your partner and as your friend. He deserves to know. He deserves the right to _choose_.”

“Of course he does.”

The other’s response comes a fraction of a second too slow. Fiddleford shuts his eyes. Stanford had _actually_ considered…

“I did,” Stanford admits. His expression is extremely grave as he leans forward on his elbows, interlocking his fingers over his knees. “I did think about it. Slip it into his Pitt Cola, maybe, or add a couple drops to the mayonnaise in his sandwich… blame it on the fifty-fifty and call it a day, pretend none of this ever happened. But… Stanley would never trust me again. It would _kill_ him. And I wouldn’t be able to live with myself for that.”

Fiddleford exhales the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He squeezes Ford’s shoulder briefly. “… _thank you._ For being honest with me, at least. Just... remember: you need to do that for _Stanley_ , too.”

“I’ll talk to him about it.” Stanford shuts the vial away in a cooler, and locks it securely with a combination, out of sight. “Just… maybe not this week.”

He looks over to the small grid of security screens displayed on the console before him and Fiddleford follows his gaze. One of its screens shows the other twin, where he’s lounging upside-down on the sofa in their living room, idly thumbing through the pictures and diagrams of the illustrated books on pregnancy the scientists had borrowed for him from the local library. It’s a little blurry on the resolution of the feed, but… Stan is definitely smiling.

“Not this week,” Fiddleford agrees.  


	11. Fiddlestan (dad!Stan), Planned Parenthood (G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three's a crowd.
> 
> modern!Fiddlestan AU, dad!Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Perhaps some fluffy Fiddlestan mpreg (with Stan as the expecting father)"
> 
> Part 1 of 3 of a series of dad!Stan requests.

Fiddleford has gotten out a _flipchart_.

Stan immediately does an about-face and walks straight back the way he’d came. He doesn’t get far, obviously.

“I know what this looks like – ”

“A chart.”

“Well, it’s a rather complicated – ”

“A. _Chart_.”

“Stanley, this isn’t something to take lightly.” Fiddleford’s still trying to pull him back into the living room, both arms wrapped tightly around the larger man’s waist, but Stan keeps right on walking, dragging the skinny inventor along as he does, and the other has to dig his heels into the carpet to gain even a semblance of friction, “Not that I’m discouraging it. I think it’s, I mean – it’s great that you brought it up, but there’re a _lot_ of things that we should probably discuss with each other in detail before we – ”

“I’m not an idiot, Fidds,” Stanley grouses. “I know what I said. Wouldja let go of me already?”

“I didn’t say that – and I wasn’t implying anything of the sort,” Fiddleford agrees immediately, placating. He ducks around Stan and plants himself in the corridor with both arms outstretched, blocking his partner’s access to their bedroom. Stan simply groans in tired frustration and starts lumbering back to the living room, trying to avoid him. Fiddleford trails meekly after him like a tail on a kite. “It’s… this is a _huge_ decision to make. I just want to make sure that we’ve got our all bases covered, and that we know exactly what we’re heading into.”

They’ve reached the living room again and Stanley stops walking. He sighs as he turns around and folds his arms, one foot tapping agitatedly against the marble as he squints at his spouse.

“Did you and my brother use that mind-switchin’ carpet again? Because you’re actin’ a heck of a lot like him, right now.”

Fiddleford pulls a face. After a beat, Stanley follows suit.

“…right. Probably not the best time to bring up my brother, when we’re talkin’ about – AHEM – _expandin’_ the family – ”

“I just… want to make sure that _you’re_ sure about this,” Fiddleford reiterates again, softly. He edges closer toward Stanley and gently tugs his arms down so they can wind their fingers together. “I mean, heck… Not that I think we’d make bad parents. You’ve more than proven that you can get along well with children, and I’ve got some experience from partial custody of Tate, at least… But there’s just so many _questions_. So many things that could happen in the future…”

“Sticks,” Stan’s tone is a deadpan, “the McGuckets have had more children than they’ve known what to do with for at least the past three generations. What’s one more?”

“ _The McGuckets_ ,” Fiddleford returns patiently, neutrally, “have, with all due respect, always leaned towards more traditional family values. ‘The bigger the family the better’. We’ve had a lot more branches sprouting from that family tree than we’d expected.”

“Me and Ford weren’t planned.” Stanley pulls away to fold his arms tighter over his chest. He tips his chin at the other in defiance, eyes challenging. “Shermie sure as hell wasn’t, either.”

“And I am _very happy that the three of you exist_ , and that we all eventually crossed paths.” Fiddleford pats his arm soothingly, and Stanley’s rigid stance relaxes just a fraction. “As I am for the existence of my numerous other cousins, and nephews, and nieces, and… other… relatives. So on and so forth. I’m simply saying: _Our_ situation gives us the _privilege and luxury_ of having a hand in deciding the outcome of what we want, and where, and how, should we decide to start a family.” He shrugs and offers his partner a small, pleading smile. “…I’d like to be able to use that opportunity.”

Stan growls and averts his gaze. “Shit, you’re doin’ that thing with your eyes. I’m not crackin’.”

Fiddleford smiles some more and presses in closer. Stanley makes a half-hearted attempt to turn his head away while the leaner man successfully coaxes his defensive arms away from his chest, and back down to rest along his sides again.

“Goddammit. Nope.” Stanley tips his head towards the ceiling, mouth twitching as the other man starts planting soft kisses along his shoulders. “I’m not foldin’. I’m _not_ – god _damn_ it, Sticks, I hate you.”

Stan leans down and Fiddleford returns the tender kiss with a pleased hum. He pats Stan’s cheek playfully, chuckling. “There we go. Knew you’d come around.”

“Fuck off.” Stan kisses him again. He doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin this time, but he does groan aloud again as he twists back to look at the flip chart that’s still dominating the middle of the room. “… _seriously_ though, if this is anythin’ like one’a Ford’s really long, really borin’ lectures, I’m bailin’.”

“Whatever happened to _not_ talking about your brother while we were discussing stuff like this?” The inventor side eyes the flip chart. “…I’ll cut it by half. Maybe simplify the more complex algorithms and equations…”

Stan gives him a look. “The fact that there are al-gore-rhythms in our plans for a family? You’re better off re-doin’ the entire thing.”

Fiddleford sighs, lips quirking. “I _suppose_ it could use a bit of a revision.”

Stan pats the cheeks that aren’t on Fiddleford’s face. _“There we go.”_


	12. Fiddlestan (dad!Stan), Shake Well Before Using (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying for a baby doesn't go quite as planned.
> 
> modern!Fiddlestan AU, dad!Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of 3 of a series of dad!Stan requests.

Fiddleford likes the bigger pictures: the overall structure, the accumulation of all the nitty gritties. Stan does better dealing with the right now and the how. So, while Fiddleford busies himself looking up the names of hospitals and care services and health plans and insurance and prenatal classes and whatever else is necessary for them, Stan makes his sole focus of Project Baby McGucket-Pines: ‘Turn Week Zero into Marathon Sex Week’.

Stan flings their box of condoms out the window. (Then later sneaks back out to retrieve it because shit, those were getting expensive! And they’d still be good to use in ten months anyhow.) He unhooks all the phones in the house, takes the batteries out of their cells, and buys enough takeout and frozen to last them the weekend. When Fiddleford gets back home from work, there is a very elaborate trail of yellow flower petals leading up the stairs and to their bedroom, and a single bright sunflower covering the groin of his otherwise extremely naked husband where he lies poised on their bed.

“The rose wasn’t big enough.”

Stan has the largest shit-eating grin on his face. The way he’s spread himself out across the bed is definitely meant to evoke something sexy, but with the way he’s deliberately leering at Fiddleford, so full of cocky confidence and swagger, Fiddleford isn’t sure if he wants to laugh, cry, or shake the other. He settles for literally jumping Stanley, who simply holds out his arms, and with that, the week-long Sexathon begins.

x x x

Week Zero Day One of the Sexathon is AWESOME, with a capital ‘A’ and a capital everything else. The entire house reeks of sex and sweat and testosterone and the slightly-factory-ish scent of too-much-lube, and Fiddleford is certain every single article of clothing and furniture they own has been stained by at least one of the afore-mentioned fluids in varying quantities. The trash remains blessedly free of latex.

Week Zero Day Two is more or less a repeat of Day One, and so are the subsequent days after it, with each progressive day waning slightly in frequency and intensity. By the time Day Seven rolls around Stanley’s actually swearing to commit himself to celibacy. Fiddleford merely grunts tiredly in agreement and goes back to sleep with his limbs curled about the other’s.

Week One, Day Three has them both peering anxiously over Stanley’s shoulder as he fidgets with the stick in his hands. After what feels like forever, the result comes up… negative. Neither are really surprised, but regardless, it’s difficult to deny their lurking disappointment. They put on a movie or two and talk about each others’ days, and maybe get in a quickie or two before they sleep – the usual.  

Week Two Day One produces similar results. They write it off to it being too early to tell still, even if it really isn’t by this point, and if Stan seems less enthused than usual about their nightly romps Fiddleford doesn’t bring it up.

Week Three and they’ve kind of stopped keeping track of the days. The tests are still negative.

Stanley gives up pissing on sticks altogether around Week Five.

“Do you want to talk about it…?”

“Naw.” Stan’s facing away from him, the little spoon, as he usually is. Fiddleford normally likes to tease him gently about it, big tough man that Stanley is compared to Fiddleford’s scrawniness, but it’s a normalcy that hasn’t been, in light of their emotions during the recent weeks. Stanley squeezes the comforting arms that are wrapped around his middle and gives a low chuckle, shifting back so that their legs touch. “Not unless ya wanna.”  

Fiddleford sighs silently. “…I feel like we should, but…”

“Hey. It’s okay.” Stanley wriggles around in his grip so that they’re facing each other. He butts their heads lightly together and Fiddleford winces a little despite himself. “It’s basically status quo, I mean, we didn’t gain or lose nuthin’.”

Fiddleford gives his husband a look. “I won’t push ya, but… I _am_ here, if you want to talk ‘bout it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stanley burrows his face into Fiddleford’s chest and wraps clumsy arms around him, like a large, heavy koala. They shift around under the comforter some and fall silent, their breathing slowly evening out as they give in to the lull of sleep.

“…I still love ya,” Fiddleford says, quietly. “You know that, right?”

“I know I’m gonna give you a bigger bruise on yer forehead if y’don’ quit worryin’,” Stanley grumbles, muffled.

Fiddleford snorts, the breath ruffling the top of Stan’s hair. He closes his eyes.

x x x

It’s about a week or two later of uneventful moments and Fiddleford is sleepily shaving his weekend stubble off his face. Fiddleford has the habit of reading  _something_ , no matter what he’s doing – he does this when he’s at the breakfast table, and Stan makes jabs at him for reading off the same cereal boxes and jam spreads while he chews his bran every morning. Now, he’s half-consciously going through the stock of odds and ends that are stashed in their mirror cabinet.

There’s extra toothpaste, deodorant, extra razor blades; cologne, aftershave, the test kits that Stan has since stopped using; some stray packets of medication for common allergies and the occasional headache. They’re running a little low on floss, he supposes, but nothing that a night trip to the grocery store won’t fix.

He finishes washing up and is about to shut the cabinet when his eyes settle on the test kits once again. They’re stacked haphazardly in a corner of the back of the cabinet and in no particular order. Stan had snapped up an entire carton of them prior to Week Sexathon, proudly claiming he’d gotten them at a amazing discount. Fiddleford had shaken his head in good-natured disbelief and not given the matter any further thought.

He squints at one of the boxes and pushes his glasses up his nose, at the little numbers embossed into the side of it.

His eyebrows shoot up.

He yanks the box out of the cabinet, ignoring the mini avalanche that follows. He turns it about in his hands so that it’s the right way up. He tips it so that the light hits the numbers properly, so he can make sure he isn’t reading it incorrectly.

He isn’t.

“Oh, for the _love_ of – ” He slaps his own face. _How_ could he not have realized…?! “Are you kidding me?!”

x x x

The door to the bar slams open. The bell at its entrance jingles angrily in protest.

“Oh, hey, dude. We don’t open until – ”

“I’m Stan Pines’ partner,” Fiddleford cuts the cashier off. He smiles ferociously at the other man, some sweaty young adult with unfortunate buck teeth and a baseball cap, until the cashier grows clearly uncomfortable. “Could I speak with him, please? It’s quite urgent.”  

“Uh, _okay_ ,” the cashier says. He turns around to the kitchen doors and pushes one of them halfway open. “Hey, Mr. Pines! I think your wife’s here for you?”

 _“That’s ‘husband’, actually,”_ Fiddleford says hotly, but Stan’s already stepped out. He looks a little green, but he frowns at Fiddleford in confusion and pulls himself slightly straighter as he wipes at his mouth, then dries his hands off on his apron.

“Oh, hey, babe. Aren’tcha supposed to be at wor – ?”

Fiddleford shoves a small, rectangular package in Stan’s face. “Pee on this and tell me the results.”

“…what? Why?”

“Just do it.”

“Here?!”

“Ew,” the cashier says.

“Yes, in front of your coworker. _Use the bathroom, obviously!_ ”

Stan groans. He looks at the box in his hands, reads its label, and his expression drops a little. “Fidds… I _told_ ya, it’s not happenin’. Switching the brands ain’t gonna – ”

“It’s not the _brand_ ,” Fiddleford interrupts, slightly heatedly, “it was the _expiry date_. All of your previous kits were expired! It’s why they wouldn’t show anything but negatives! In fact, that’s probably _why_ you got ‘em discounted in th’ first place!”

Stanley stares at him. “…those things expire?”

Fiddleford gapes back. “ _Please_ tell me you’re jokin’.”

“Yeah, Mr Pines, even I knew that.”

Stan turns around and snatches the cashier’s cap off of his head. He throws it into the kitchen. The cashier yelps and scrambles after it. Once the kitchen doors close Stanley turns back to Fiddleford.

“They ain’t food,” Stanley argues defensively. His cheeks are turning the slightest shade of pink. “It’s like soap, or shampoo, or detergent, or whatever, righ’? Those things don’t got expiry dates on ‘em.”

“Well, no, but the test contains an indicator that – “ Fiddleford pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep, long breath. “L-look, it doesn’t matter. All those previous test results? Discard them. _Forget they existed._ ” Fiddleford pushes the kit in Stan’s hands towards him again, expression softening slightly. “ _This_ is the first test. The first _real_ one. We’ve been disregarding any possible symptoms you’ve had because of the negative results we’ve been getting, but… I’m _fairly_ certain it’ll be a positive this time.”

Stanley stares at the kit like it’s a live bomb. Then he bolts through the kitchen doors himself.

He’s out again sooner than Fiddleford expects him, both hands gripping the now-used test kit tightly. Stan’s eyes are wide with shock and Fiddleford doesn’t need to hear the news before his own face blooms into an uncontrollable grin.

_“Fidds – ”_

“Yep.”

 _“Holy_ shit _.”_

“Yep.” He pulls out another box from one of his pockets. “You can take it again to be sure if you’d want, but like I said, I’m pretty sure – ”

Stan grabs him by the shoulders, drops him into a dip, and _kisses_ him. _Hard_. The kit falls from Fiddleford’s fingers and he flails uselessly, reduced to making awkward muffled noises into Stan’s mouth.

“What are yoummMPH – oh god, _please_ tell me you washed your hands – ”

 _“ – holy shit,”_ Stan repeats again once he’s pulled away, and he starts _laughing_. It’s like his entire being’s just bursting to the seams with wild exhilaration, unbridled joy just _radiating_ off of him in nearly palpable waves – it’s been weeks since he’s seen Stan’s laughing like this again – and he’s mashing his lips to every inch of his partner’s face that he can manage. “All this time… all this time…!”

“I can’t _believe_ you,” Fiddleford groans, half trying to return the kisses and half trying to shove Stan away. “I can’t believe _me!_ I should have realized something was off, should have been more suspicious when you mentioned having purchased those darned things in bulk – ”

“ – hey! Ramirez!” Stan yells over his shoulder, grinning. He starts herding Fiddleford out the main door. “Tell B.T I’m takin’ the day off. Got sick in the toilets again! Real bad! Ugh, I’m pukin’ everywhere! Gotta go!”

“Okay, Mr. Pines! Get better soon!”

Fiddleford’s trying not to laugh. He’s failing hideously. _“You can’t just skip work – !”_

“An’ tell that boss’a yours that you got sick, too – those sympathy pains, cow’s vein syndrome, or whatever. We ain’t workin’ today.” Stan’s already gotten himself into the passenger seat of Fidd’s car, where it’s been parked outside the bar. He seats himself and waggles his eyebrows at Fiddleford, leering. This – now this is the Stan he knows. “You an’ me, we’re gonna spend today celebratin’ the fuck outta each other. Start and end th’day with a bang. _Several_ bangs, actually – ”

“You kiss our baby with that mouth?”

Stan looks pensive, but only for a moment. “…its ears ain’t developed yet, have they?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

Fiddleford gets into the driver’s seat. He turns the key in the ignition and the engine hums to life, and Stan coaxes him into another kiss over the gears. A quick kiss turns into a few more deeper ones. They’re both a little shy of breathless when Fiddleford starts pulling away from the curb and heading towards their home, his cell wedged between his cheek and his shoulder as he listens to the dial tone.

“Good morning,” Fiddleford says into his cell, as evenly as he can manage with Stan’s fingers jovially dancing up his thigh. The corners of his lips twitch. “I’m, ah, I’m afraid I’ll need to call in sick for today…”  


	13. Fiddlestan (dad!Stan), Glow (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan is anything but delicately maternal.
> 
> modern!Fiddlestan AU, dad!Stan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maximum sap overload, some kink mentions, sex allusions, brief bit of labor near the end, but mostly sap. Disgusting amounts of sap. 
> 
> Part 3 of 3 of a series of dad!Stan requests.

Stan takes full advantage of his newly-expectant status.

“Fidds.”

Fiddleford ignores him.

“Fiiiiddds.”

The ignoring continues.

“Fiddlestiiiiiicks.”

“Still ignoring you!”

 _“Stiiiiiiiiiiicksssss,”_ Stanley whines piteously.

Fiddleford turns to squint-glare at the couch. Sure enough, Stanley’s giving him the full puppy eye treatment, pouting up through his lashes where he’s draped limply over a throw cushion.

“Thirrrrstyyyy.”

“You have no shame.”

“Nope.” Stan raises his empty glass and grins. He waggles it playfully. “Refill…?”

He swipes the glass from Stanley’s hand and crosses the eight steps to the sink. Stanley slaps his rear as he goes by.

“Love you!”

“You’re an ass!”

x x x

He bats Fiddleford’s hands away from him even as he chucks up his recently consumed not-much-of-a-dinner into the toilet.

“’Morning sickness’, my – ,” he gets out before his face disappears past the rim of the ceramic again. Fiddleford just sighs sympathetically and rubs at his husband’s back until the heaving stops and Stan’s able to sit back on his heels.

“Seriously, I’ve had better hangovers.”

“Just a few more weeks.” Fiddleford wisely decides not to mention that morning sickness isn’t necessarily limited to the first trimester in occasional cases.  

Stan sniffles, then makes a face. “ _Oh_. Puke in my nose. Ugh.”

x x x

“Hey,” Stan sounds distracted, “Is feelin’ the baby movin’ kinda like when you’ve got a fart?”

Fiddleford stares, incredulous.

_“…really?”_

x x x

Stan’s always had a bit of a paunch, but one day it’s suddenly blindingly _obvious_ that it’s _not_ fat; it’s a _baby bump._ And Fiddleford’s finding this old-yet-new area suddenly _impossible_ to leave alone.  

The moment he realizes he’s almost obsessed with touching Stan’s belly is when he stops doing so. It’d been nothing like this with his ex-wife when she’d been expecting, and he doesn’t want Stan to think he’s being weird, or put him off in any way. He takes to the internet to try and get an answer.

He finds out way more than he’d bargained for.

x x x

They meet in the kitchen.

“Um,” Fiddleford stammers. “M-mornin’.”

“Hey,” Stan returns, just as awkwardly.

Neither of them move.

“ – that wasn’t what it looked like,” Fiddleford blurts finally, at the same time Stan shrugs, “I’ve seen weirder fetishes.”

 _“…what,”_ Fiddleford says.

Stan shrugs again. “Look, I get it. You think it’s hot, you get your rocks off to it – ”

“WHAT.”

“ – I mean, shit, I don’t care. Yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ weird, but hey, we’ve all got skeletons and closets.”

“IT’S NOT LIKE THAT,” Fiddleford shrills, jumping up from his seat, “and it’s ‘skeletons IN closets’!”

“Oh! Well! I suppose ya just _stumbled_ on a website full’a pregnant, naked – ”

 _“It was purely informational!”_ Fiddleford splutters, red. His hands are balled into tight fists against the table top. “Like how safe it would be to engage in coitus during pregnancy! A-and one link led to another, and _some_ of those links – well – they r-roused my curiosity! I didn’t realize that there were – ! I wasn’t aware that – !”

“ – you don’t gotta justify what ya like ta me,” Stan growls, crossing his arms. He does _not_ miss the way Fiddleford’s eyes immediately follow the action, attention drawn to the stretch of Stan’s shirt over his stomach.

Fiddleford’s hands dive into his hair. “Regardless…! My degree of inclination is nothin’ as _perverse_ as – !”

“You think I’m hot,” Stan accuses. He gestures broadly, almost angrily, at his gravid form. “Like… like _this_.”

Fiddleford inhales. “Very much so.”

Stan swears loudly and the tension drains right out of him. “ _Jesus_. Three weeks. Three friggin’ _weeks!_ Tryin’a ignore how fuckin’ _horny_ I’ve been, because I thought you _didn’t_ wanna  – !”

“Oh, fer cryin’ out loud,” Fiddleford groans.

He lunges towards Stanley and they damn near devour each other in the doorway.  

x x x

“It’s not a fetish.”

Stan smirks. “Uh huh.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Fiddleford huffs. He rolls over on top of Stan again, shifting down carefully so he can place both hands against either side of Stan’s belly, hair and all, and lay a gentle kiss to it. He grapples with his words. “Just… _you_. Having _our_ child.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Stan says. “Don’t. _Please_ don’t. I _will_ slap you.”

“Carrying life…”

“Slap loading.”

“…letting it grow strong inside of you.”

“Slap imminent.”

“It’s just… _amazing_ ,” Fiddleford mumbles, face pink, still stroking Stan’s stomach. “It’s like… an untouchable language of love – ow!”

“Slap sent.”

x x x

He doesn’t have to, obviously, but Fiddleford takes the fetal kick counts together with Stanley every evening. For one, he gets to spend more time with his husband and unborn child. It’s also an excellent opportunity to get Stan to practice his breathing. Stan gets too self-conscious during their classes, uncomfortable doing “the zen thing”, so the ten minutes or so of meditative silence they have every evening is something Fiddleford appreciates.  

The baby nudges against their palms, hard, and Stan grunts a little, but doesn’t open his eyes. Fiddleford kisses his temple, and makes another tally on their notepad.

x x x

_“Did you just – ?!”_

“Yeah I did.” Stan rolls his hips down again, grinning like the devil. “C’mon.”

Fiddleford slaps a hand over his own mouth to keep from moaning. Whether that’s from horror or arousal is a different story. “I told you, it’s not a kink! I just – ”

“Maybe I did a little more… _research_ … on that stuff you were lookin’ up.” Oh god. Stan’s _purring_. That means this particular situation is most definitely going to end in Stan’s favor. “Maybe I went further down that rabbit hole.”

Stan leans down to rumble into his ear, low and husky, _“Maybe_ I _like it.”_

“Sweet jesus,” Fiddleford whimpers.

Stan chuckles. He swivels down against the other, slow and languid, and makes it a point to press the heavy weight of his roundness into the squirming body beneath him. Fiddleford’s hands fly to support his belly, palms cupping its girth while he thumbs gentle, almost reverent circles against Stan’s heated skin.      

“How do you take something so beautiful,” Fiddleford says, exasperated, in-between kisses and sighs as they continue moving together, “something so innocent and pure, and _wonderful_ , and just corrupt it beyond all reason?”

“A gift.” Stan’s laughter hitches. He sobers a little, still smiling. “’sides, I ain’t gonna stay pregnant for long, an’ I know you’ve got more brains than ta let your dick run away wit’ ya fantasies when it’s time ta get serious. I say we have fun while we can.” He smirks. “Now, c’mon. Do me. Breed me like a _bitch_.”

_“STAN!”_

“Want you t’fill me up.” Stan moans exaggeratedly and Fiddleford curses as he tries to pull Stanley onto his side. “Fill me with your spunk. Cum inside me so many times our baby can swim innit – ”

“ – what godforsaken websites have you been on?!”

x x x

Stan does talk to their unborn baby. They both do, but Stan mostly goofs around when it’s in Fiddleford’s presence, armed with his well-prepared arsenal of horrible dad jokes that never fail to make the other groan.

Occasionally, when Stan thinks he’s alone, Fiddleford’s overheard the man saying uncharacteristically _sappy_ things he’d never have been caught dead doing. It’s embarrassingly endearing, and incredibly sweet.

And then there are days like today.

“Listen up, you little _freeloader_ ,” Stan growls, “I’m gonna evict you myself if you don’t start – ”

“Put the safety scissors back when you’re done intimidating Junior,” Fiddleford sighs.

x x x

“Pain on a scale of one to ten.”

“Pain? What pain?” Stan grins a little too widely. “There’s no pain. Who said anything about pain? I’m not in pain!”

Fiddleford simply folds his arms, shifts his weight, and cocks an eyebrow.

Stan winces. “Oh, god.”

“Denial,” Fiddleford states flatly. “One to ten, Stanley.”

Stan hunches over, hands pressed to his underbelly. “…maybe a six.”

Fiddleford sighs wearily. He’d expected as much; he’d already packed their bags hours ago when he’d first had his suspicions. All that was left had been convincing Stan and his stubbornness to leave. “You’re about five minutes apart now, too. No more dawdling, come on. Unless ya wanna have our baby in the car.”

“I change my mind about that eviction.” Stan groans, clutching his middle as Fiddleford supports him to the vehicle. “Stay in there as long as you like, Junior. Really. Oh god, I’m not ready.”

“You’re still joking, and you can still walk. You’re fine. Breathe.” Fiddleford crouches beside him as Stan lowers himself gingerly into the passenger seat. He takes his hand and Stan falls into rhythm with him with seasoned practice. Fiddleford strokes the other’s hair from his forehead until the pressure passes.

Stan shakes his head again. “I’m _not_ ready.”

“You’re fine.” They share a brief, gentle kiss, and Fiddleford’s hand moves from his forehead to his cheek. “Stanley, look at me. _You’re fine._ Say it with me.”

“You’re fine,” Stan jokes nervously.

Fiddleford smiles. “We’re fine.”

Stan swallows and covers Fiddleford’s hands with his own. He draws a few more steadying breaths before nodding quickly.

“I’m probably gonna be screamin’ about how much I hate ya later, so. Love ya.”

“No screaming. We practiced. Screaming makes it worse.”  

“I take that back. I hate ya.”

Fiddleford snorts. “You’re an ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is most likely the last chapter I'll be posting to this fic, as I've since lost interest in the GF fandom. Thank you for reading!


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